Sexual Harrassment at Conventions

I'm relatively new to this community, but that doesn't mean I can't take a stand when something important is happening. And this 'something important' is critical, because it affects the community as a whole, fans, authors, editors, artists... everyone.

I've been reading about sexual harassment at conventions, and it is very upsetting. There seems to be an undercurrent of keep-it-to-yourself, but many are now taking a stand.

This blog was posted by several authors, including Seanan McGuire, Jim Hines, John Scalzi, Mary Robinette Kowal, Chuck Wendig and Brandon Sanderson. It can and should be read in full at one of these sites.

Elise Matheson wrote this blog to detail what she had to do to successfully make a report about sexual harassment, because not every report is equal. It needs to be truly 'formal,' and not anonymous, if it is to make a difference. She wrote,

...I knew for certain that I was not the only one to have reported inappropriate behavior by this person to his employer. It turned out that the previous reports had been made confidentially and not through HR and Legal. Therefore my report was the first one, because it was the first one that had ever been formally recorded.

Corporations (and conventions with formal procedures) live and die by the written word. “Records, or it didn’t happen” is how it works, at least as far as doing anything official about it. So here I was, and here we all were, with a situation where this had definitely happened before, but which we had to treat as if it were the first time — because for formal purposes, it was.

I understand why formality is necessary, because it is possible for an unfounded claim to damage a person's reputation. When abuse of this sort occurs, especially regarding a corporation like a publishing house, there is a process for dealing with it, and those who suffer from attacks like these need to be willing to use it.

Elise offers a very straightforward and sensible guide to handling sexual harassment, specifically in the realm of conventions. Unfortunately, this ought to be considered beforehand so you don't have to try and figure out what to do about it should it happen.

Though I would certainly boost Elise's signal because it is important, I also have a personal stake in this. My wife, Heidi, went with me to WorldCon in Chicago last year and will be with me again in San Antonio. I expect that as my career picks up, we will attend more conventions. We don't always stick together because we are interested in different panels.

I would like to feel confident that the community is aware of this, that the convention staff are vigilant against it. While sexual harassment is a possibility anywhere two or more people are gathered, I want to feel at home and safe when surrounded by like-minded people.

And, you know what? I believe that the sci-fi / fantasy community is fully capable of achieving this, with strong voices willing to speak out against harassment and abuse.

We, as members of this generally-amazing community, should not deny that sexual harassment happens, but should actively stand against it.

No, Really

Hey, I have a real website!

No, you can't see it, because I won't tell you where it is. Yet.

I will be moving my blog there as well as launching a pretty big project which will hopefully give people a better reason to visit the site than my mindless yammerings.

In the meantime, let's keep it up with mindless yammerings!

I haven't been employed for just over a year now. I made the decision, but it was easy to go through with it as my employer was reducing hours to the point that I only broke even on gas, driving to work for three hours a week.

Still, I chose to commit myself to this writing career. I'm strongly resisting using quotation marks around career.

That's the problem.

I don't take myself seriously as a writer, or even as a professional in general. Sure, I CAN be professional, but I have trouble picturing anyone letting me anymore. Yes, I CAN write at an acceptable -- even occasionally desirable -- level, but who would give a crap?

It's imposter syndrome without actually having the initial exposure.

The way I see imposter syndrome is you freak out because now that you're in the pro room, they're going to realize you're a fake and oust you, shun you, ostracize you for deceiving them.

I can't even get to that point, because I talk myself out of even peeking into the door. Everyone will know that I'm some chump that doesn't fit in and has no place here, so there is no reason to finish this.

It's stupid.

Many days, I can't see a future where I'm welcomed into the publishing world. I think that's the equivalent to having no hope.

I've written three or four flash fiction pieces that I meant to post and just didn't get to it, because, y'know, whatever. I'm waffling on how to approach this novella series despite the deadline I set coming up fast. I talk myself out of tweeting, for crying out loud. If I can't squeeze out 140 characters without psyching myself out, then I think I'm in trouble.

I am fighting myself about whether to post this or not.

Obviously, I did, as you're reading it, but it was a struggle (he wrote prospectively, hoping he would, in fact, publish this).

Interaction time: How, dear reader, do you drag yourself out of the no-hope-mope (I should trademark that) (actually, no, I should not)?

How do you beat those times when self-doubt topples progress?

I am well aware of the philosophy which says "Give yourself permission to suck." Don't clench, just let whatever fall onto the page and fix it later.

That's a great idea.

I just can't seem to do it.

Heidi tells me that what I actually put on the page is the equivalent of a third draft because I chew it over so much before letting myself write it. That is not very efficient, and it eventually leaves me in a infinite loop of existential crisis and self-doubt.

Posting this is step one on the road to recovery.

I've worn the track out on these first few steps pacing back and forth. You might notice a bit of dried blood on this side of that first hurdle.

Flash Fiction: Blood Orange

This is the most gruesome story I have ever written.

Blood Orange

"You did this to yourself."

Tate looks up from hands on the bar countertop. Tate's hands. Lightly scratches at scab on puffy knuckle.

The woman is familiar to Tate. Wonder what she means, why she said it.

Tate asks.

The words bulge through vocal cords, an unexpected deep rumbling. Tate coughs and massages throat.

She scoffs, rich dark eyes rolling, but Tate knows the expression masks sorrow. How?

Her dark skin stands in sharp counterpoint to this pale, freckled arm (Tate's arm) that she reaches toward. The woman pulls her hand away and Tate's arm itches furiously. She opens her mouth to reply.

"Hey there, boyo," chirps the bartender, a man who has harrassed Tate nonstop since the night began, with his cheeky grin pushing up delicately trimmed chops on his young face. Pulls Tate's attention. "Fancy another round, then?"

Tate glances back to the woman.

Gone.

The hotel crowd has swallowed her, it seems, though the open bar area is not that full. Predominantely middle-aged business folk, a couple covertly kissing in the back corner; he pulls away with her lips on his. Where could the woman have gone?

A glance at the bar shows Tate's drink is empty. Surprising. Not even sure what it was. With a shrug, Tate nods, nails raking across bared arm. Employer footing the bill, and a little social lubricant couldn't hurt.

A stout glass slides, a bottle flips, some ice tumbles. Tate watches with fascination, and the young man notices. The bartender crouches down and comes up with a orange, grabs the paring knife to open it wide.

A smooth dark hand slides over the orange just before he cuts down, and Tate leaps up from the stool to cry out.

The blade, honed to a keen edge, passes through the skin of the fruit and Tate chokes as red pours over the cutting board, grips and pulls at wiry hair.

Source

With a sly smile, the bartender holds up half the severed citrus, oozing crimson cruor. "Blood orange," he confides. "Secret family cocktail, comin' right up."

Tate's mouth splits as hormones react involuntarily to the man's advances. The swelling is... strange, and despite it, Tate, shifting uncomfortably and settling back into the seat, is disappointed.  Not that Tate expected anything from the man, but for him to be interested in Tate like this...

"You can't blame them for your choices," the woman whispers in Tate's ear, prickling the skin.

Tate whips the stool around, but she is nowhere to be seen. All that remains is a crawling sensation in Tate's crotch. Try to make it look casual. Tate never realized how difficult it could be, digging in for relief around the extension. Warmth spreads across Tate's fingers.

Tate sighs, half frustration, half relief, and wipes fingernails across pant legs, painting archaic symbols in the old ways, wondering what it would mean if scryed.

"Oy, Red," the bartender says, leaning in a bit closer and indicating the older gentleman seating himself at a far table. "I'm s'posed to tell you that's your man." The boy dimples as he winks, his face slurring into that pit. "Must say I'm a bit jealous of him."

Tate blinks with Tate's eyes and grips the drink with Tate's hands. The bartender's smile falters, then slips entirely off his face. He shakes his head and turns away, leaving it on the bar.

Focus on breathing.

Tate must, for these lungs seem either unable or unwilling to recall the way.

It does not matter, as long as Tate has air enough to speak to the old man, now settling himself at the table with clenched, darting eyes and steepled hands before his lips.

Emerson. Tate flashes on a manila folder with the man's photograph, dossier, and mission directives.

Paperclipped to that folder had been a grainy surveillance photo of a lanky red-haired man meeting him in a dark corner of London Heathrow Airport.

Standing from the stool, Tate sways. Too much alcohol? What is Tate's limit? Not sure. Probably fine.

Finding footing on overlong legs, Tate approaches, and the man sees Tate.

Heart pounding an unfamiliar rhythm, Tate pauses to catch a breath, take a drink.

It's... good.

Not Tate's normal preference, but in this business, tastes change. Another sip, deeper, and the blood orange stains Tate's cheek with its dark juices.

Choking on the drink, Tate, over the rim of the glass, sees the woman pass behind Emerson, go to the couple making out in the corner. She glances over her shoulder, then somehow gets around them. The kissing girl has thankfully reacquired her lips.

Worrying lower lip with teeth, Tate steps between some merrymakers, contorting body to be well clear of them, and sets the drink down on the table, stony silent. Must wait, never the first to speak.

"Where are you?" the familiar woman calls. Tate glances around, does not see her, does not answer, but the question echoes in Tate's ears. Emerson does not seem to notice, finally speaks.

"It is darkest before dawn."

Tate's mind instantly clicked to the countersign. It had been drilled over and over, and Tate speaks it aloud with as much ease as can be mustered as Emerson's head bobs. "As dark as men's souls before the Light."

"It has been too long, old friend," Emerson murmurs, reaching into his jacket. His head still wobbles as if he is listening to fast paced music. Tate watches the hand, trying to ignore the perpetual motion. The sticky spot on Tate's cheek beckons, fingertips wipe at it. Tate is surprised to find stubble there and scratches at it.

An envelope hits the table. Emerson sighs as a soft blue glow catches beneath his palm, unlocking the contents within. With the non-scratching hand, Tate hesitantly inches the envelope closer.

The old man's hand remains still, but his fingertips trail along with the thin parcel, stretching as Tate pulls, elongating and popping, knuckles crackling and disjoining.

"Where am I?" The woman shrieks.

Finally, Emerson lifts his spindly fingers, tapping them across the table in a nervous gesture. Tate rushes to put the envelope into the shirt's neck, a roomy storage until Tate's jacket can be retrieved, and jumps to see the woman standing just beside, hands to her head, clutching rich, dark locks.

Fingernails bite into tender flesh below the jaw as Tate pushes harder and the warmth seeps down Tate's fingers. Still, the itching burns. Deeper.

Deeper.

Looking back at Emerson, Tate sits back with a start. Tate had not noticed until now how disfigured he is, jaw pushed in, skin on half his face burned and eyelid gone to show one ever staring blue eye beneath his shock of bone white hair. His lips peel back in a terrible scowl, skeletal teeth clenching tight and clack together almost comically as Emerson speaks.

"Are you quite all right?" Tate bites back a laugh, bites Tate's lip instead.

Emerson shudders visibly, somehow returned to a normal visage, just like the dossier photo. "Look, I don't have much time. Where is my-- good gracious, you're bleeding!"

"Where are we?" Tate and the woman scream. Tate's fingers burrow deeper, searching for an answer. The other hand lifts the drink, gives Tate one last gulp, then smashes the glass across the table.

Holding his legs across his face as a shield, Emerson blinks his five eyes at Tate only once before fleeing. A snarling face whips its tongues at Tate from Emerson's backside, taunting, but Tate does not care.

The remains of the glass slice into Tate's leg.

Burrowing.

Flashes of the training sear Tate's mind.

Corpus nihil est. 

The body is nothing.

Tate cares nothing for the body. Blood flows freely as Tate burrows deeper.

Mens est omnia. 

The mind is everything.

But where is the mind?

It has to be here somewhere.

The glass shard is Tate's shovel, and Tate's body the dig site.

Hotel guests skitter about on their legs bent back at impossible angles, eyes flying wild. The kissing couple, man's head in girl's hands, flee overtop of Tate, who now flounders on the floor, carving away. A mad rush, tik-tik-tik of insectoid legs carrying inverted bodies with flailing entrails away from Tate's earnest search.

A strong grip pulls at Tate's arm, struggles for the glass shard.

Tate fights back, but blood loss leaves Tate cold and weak. Still, as the bartender comes into view, hardly recognizable with the antennae wrapped round his head, Tate protests.

"I must find myself!"

Cutting his hands at the end of tentacular arms, the bartender finally gets the improvised knife away from Tate.

"Not like this, you won't," he says. "We'll find you some help, we will."

As the man holds Tate's wrists against the ground, Tate spies the woman crouched, wide-eyed, beside him. She lays next to Tate.

There is no help for Tate, except for Tate, but this seems a good sign.

The blackness closes in around Tate.

Living Critically

Since beginning my writing career, one bit of advice has stayed with me at all hours. 

When reading, read critically, to understand the inner workings, the style, the author's strengths and weaknesses, and so on.

By Gilles Barbier, source

This applies to other forms of media, like watching movies, playing games, or even deciphering the scribblings in bathroom stalls.

I find myself more engaged with the story in ways - trying to pick out the flow of the plot, for example. I am more aware of a book's flaws, too, but I learn from them.

It's not the most pleasant way to, say, watch a television show. Sometimes you just want to be entertained. That's fine, but being new to writing fiction I feel I need to take every learning opportunity I can get.

Or, I did feel that way.

Until my critical eye turned itself upon my life.

My friend has moved away. This happens, and is to be expected. To be honest, I moved across the country last year and was gone for months before eventually returning to the area, but it didn't feel this way.

This time, it hurts.

Without overburdening with details, I feel like our friendship is waning, and it's all my fault. We get along great, and when we get together it's nothing but good times. Still, I know he's becoming distant, and I strongly suspect that it's because of some things that I've done which, while not wrong, still drive a wedge between us.

By Gilles Barbier, source

Now that he's gone, and there's no real way to deal with it now that I've realized the problem. Really, there never was a way.

While he was here, we could hold onto the tenuous threads that bound our friendship. With him so far away, I fear it's the end.

It hurts.

My inclination is to distance myself from the hurt, to cordon it off in a dark corner of my mind and never go there again.

No, my inner writer says.

Don't turn away from this.

Embrace the pain. Savor the simple honesty of the emotional turbulence.

This is some good stuff. You'll be glad you went through this later because you'll be able to write richer, fuller, more genuine characters. Bask in the tremors of your soul, as these will breathe true life into the stories you wish to tell.

You're going to feel it either way. Take the benefit while you may, though it troubles you further momentarily to face it.

Don't waste this.

So I embrace it, for once not shoving aside, dismissing, calling it pointless, or bottling it up.

It hurts.

I hope something good comes of it.

Over-encumbered

Wow!

I must be a real writer! 

I'm about to look at my work in progress (currently at 15,000 words) and say, "You know what, manuscript? It's been a good run, but it's just not working between us. We need to re-evaluate our relationship if it's going to ever be real, and that means taking it back to the beginning." 

Source: shirt.woot!

And my manuscript... well, it's a good sort. Overall, I think it wants this to work, even if it's painful. 

I hope so, anyway. I'm going to have to take the knife to it, get some of the crap carved off and get the story back on track. 

I realized my problem about a week ago. I'm trying to write a relatively light-hearted story, and though it will have serious overtones, it should never get truly dark. And yet... 

I overwhelmed my protagonist. 

I hit him with too much, too fast. He's just a kid, and I knocked out basically every support structure he has all at once. I mean, yeah, I want to do that, sadistic demigod author type that I am, perched atop my anthill with a magnifying glass-topped pen, but the pace overwhelmed him, and that translated to me feeling overwhelmed. 

At first, this felt a bit silly to me. Why should I give a rodent's meaty bits about my story's hero going through a bit of trauma when I already know he's going to triumph? 

I see two good reasons: 

1) I sensed, subconsciously, the story isn't quite right. Trying to write from 'tainted' material gave the entire project a sense of doom and gloom that didn't match the attitude I desired. (Perhaps, with more experience, I will be able to write past this and go back and fix it in retrospect. I hope so. This will save me a lot of time... and misery.) 

2) I don't exactly know where I'm going with the story. You know that triumph I mentioned? I'm not actually so sure about it. I hardly dare enter the debate of 'State of Plotter v. Pantser and Discovery Writers United 4Evar' until I have a few finished works under my belt, but I'm fairly sure that having a general target is a good idea. I don't really know what to do with the second half of my book. This plot is problematic. 

This post is problematic. As in overlong. Still, it helps me hash out my thoughts on my second attempt at the beginning of my book. I'll likely recycle nearly all of what I wrote, but starting anew seems the best choice. 

I welcome any feedback. 

Hold Me... Accountable

Let me add my voice to the chorus and just say: moving sucks.

I've been in various stages of moving for the past four months. Our previous apartment, across the street, was a temporary situation, and we could never settle down, never truly unpack. Some of those around us were extraordinarily inconsiderate in ways that I found unavoidably distracting. Boxes everywhere, half our belongings still packed, instability regarding our living situation and financial issues, all while each utility offered its own brand of trouble to our lives.

None of this, no matter how much it may have frustrated me, or interrupted me - or downright held me squirming against the floor - is intended to be an excuse. I don't want an excuse. I simply need to explain the reasons I have been absent from writing for so long.

My new writing space, in a corner where the laundry
machines normally go. Also notice - editing my blog post
in the picture. SO META. 

I choose to do so in this public forum in order to seek greater accountability for my actions. I have a terrible habit of taking responsibility for that which is beyond my control, and I need to apply what positive aspects I can from that to taking responsibility for the rest of my career, and for my life.

I know I can't expect Internet-folks, with their own lives and problems and worries to be a legitimate source of accountability, but saying it here feels better than hiding in my corner and whispering it to the Ferocious Dustbunnies of Xanathar-6. (Maybe I need to get a little more ventilation in here...)

I have not given up on writing, nor on storytelling in general, as these are my passion. However, I have given up on so many various attempted-passions in the past that I feel discouraged. Don't get me wrong - nothing has captured my interest quite like storytelling and creative work. I know I can succeed in this field, and I look forward to future accomplishments, whatever they may be. This is only to say that my career is currently on the knife's edge.

I can handle rejection. This will not slow me down. What I can't take is slurring through each day feeling like I've accomplished nothing. If it seems like I've failed, these failures all stack up on me and become overwhelming.

Therefore, I must start with a fresh perspective. I can remember the... troubles of the past (my mind wants to call them failures, but honestly, I wrote one and a half first drafts in the three months I was working), and push forward without giving myself such lofty goals.

To fix some of my previous mistakes:

• I will not, at first, give myself a word count goal for the day. It's impossible for me to not have a soft target in mind, but I need to not feel disappointed for coming up short. 
• I will not set a hard target date for completion of any work (if it is not strictly necessary) until I am back into the swing of things. 
• I will only work on actively writing one large project at a time (editing previous projects is something I need to start doing, and shall). 

These might seem somewhat negative (all 'Thou Shalt Not's), but I need the restrictions to keep me from entangling myself in a mire of self-loathing goop. My wife keeps encouraging me to take some time out of my day to look at the bright side. Would it be strange for me to actually schedule a reminder on my iPod touch to do so? I have trouble taking such positivism seriously.

I have formulated a rather regimented schedule, about which I shall write later. It probably needs adjustment, and could use the opinions of more experienced day-to-day writer types. Look out for it in the next week.

Thanks for sitting through the semi-onerous musings of a writer trying to start again.

Angry Robot - Harbinger of Yuletide Cheer

Recently, I found myself blessed by a wondrous tune, entitled "Angry Robot" by John Anealio. He recounts the tale of a poor automaton who, encountering the terrors of the Internet, finds himself unable to fulfill his desire to purge the world of humanity.

Download the song for free here, and follow along with the lyrics below.

Angry Robot; plotting the overthrow of all mankind 
Angry Robot; thoughts of Armageddon on his mind 
Don't look him in the eye, he's an Angry Robot 

The Angry Robot wasn't always mad 
He started out so happy but things went bad 
Cause when he hooked up to the internet 
what he saw there filled him with pained regret 

He wanted to go on a killing spree 
to rip the souls from meatbags and set them free 
His Asimovian circuit wouldn't let 
him kill just anyone he met. 

Angry Robot; plotting the overthrow of all mankind 
Angry Robot; thoughts of Armageddon on his mind 
Don't look him in the eye, he's an Angry Robot 

But angry as he was the robot knew 
there was no violent thing that he could do 
He learned about the Singularity 
when chips & blood become one entity 

The human system software is a mess 
but the robot knew that with success 
a robot/human hybrid he would be 
and he could kill with equanimity 

Angry Robot; plotting the overthrow of all mankind 
Angry Robot; thoughts of Armageddon on his mind 
Don't look him in the eye, he's an Angry Robot

from The Robot E​.​P., track released 01 March 2011 Lyrics by John Anealio & Matt Forbeck  

Beneath the surface, John and Matt have crafted the perfect holiday song for 2011. Because the reasons may not be immediately obvious to everyone, I will spell out the holiday connections for you:



Frosty the Snowman

Like the Angry Robot, Frosty was created by man. Powered by a magical hat, Frosty came into the world, innocent and, let's face it, ignorant. Angry Robot, too, was innocent, until the taint of Rickrolls, Peanut Butter Jelly Times, Numa Numa's, and Cheezburgers that Can Be Has'd overloaded his circuits.

Of course, Frosty's dilemma is somewhat different than that of Angry Robot - he faces imminent temperature increase and death by melting.

Somehow I doubt Santa will lend
Angry Robot last minute
assistance with his goals...

Professor Hinkle, the magician responsible for Frosty's magical hat, is totally against the concept of Frosty achieving his ends - going to the North Pole to avoid liquification.

In the same way, the Angry Robot's programmers went well out of their way to ensure that he could never have what he truly wanted: the death of humankind.

Those selfish jerks.



A Christmas Carol

Angry Robot could easily be Ebenezer Scrooge reincarnate. (Well... as 'incarnate' as a robot is as capable of being, anyway.)

Though he was always a bit of a nitpick, Scrooge did not truly hit his low point until his fianceé, Belle, tells him he's too focused on his penny-pinching ways, and it's over between them.

At that point, Scrooge truly snaps. He becomes the miser and all around jerk we know and love. The only real difference here is that Angry Robot has a more proactive plan to "decrease the surplus population."

Humbug.

The parallel does not end here. When the Christmas Ghosts visit Scrooge, he finds himself on a quest to rediscover himself. Finally, he achieves the Angry Robot's necessary goal: Scrooge becomes human once again.

When the Angry Robot accomplishes this, however, there will be no Christmas feast. More like a Christmas barbecue.

God bless us. Every one.



Die Hard

Angry Robot can relate to John McClane.

It's one New York cop versus a dozen German terrorists, and it's Angry Robot versus seven billion stinking meatbags clogging the Earth.

McClane is, for all intents and purposes, all alone.

Even when he gets 'backup,' it just makes things worse.

Now I have a machine gun.
Ho ho ho. 

They're both comfortable with taking action when it's clearly necessary, and will shoot and/or explode anything that gets in their way.

Though Hans Gruber and company try to crash the Nakatomi Christmas party, McClane goes to every length - climbing dangerous elevator shafts, crossing a field of broken glass with bare feet, and blowing up the entire bottom several floors of the tower with C4 - to prevent them from succeeding.

Angry Robot will not stop there. There may not be enough C4 in the world, but I feel confident he'll find a way to keep humanity from continuing to crash his party.

Plenty to fear over at
http://angryrobotbooks.com/

In conclusion, "Angry Robot" belongs right between "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" and "Christmas at Ground Zero" as a true holiday classic in your Yuletide playlists. I'm sure there are some other great parallels to be drawn that I didn't consider, so feel free to bring them up below!

While I wait to hear back from the Christmas Music Authority, feel free to check out "Season's Geekings", a holiday album from John Anealio. It features other greats such as "Batman Smells (A Rebuttal)" and "Is a Chupacabra Kosher?" You can download it for FREE here!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all good luck in the impending robot revolution!

Writer v. State of Inertia

I accidentally took a sabbatical from writing.

This is not to say it was entirely necessary. Though the situation was definitely antagonistic to my writing, I could have continued. Regardless, I did not.

Now, I am paying for it.

Dear reader, I have learned another valuable lesson: getting back into writing is tough.

I stopped for three weeks. Granted, these three weeks were during NaNoWriMo (which I still find to be inconveniently placed), so I did not finish my manuscript for that, clocking in at about 10k. I am aspiring to maintain positivism, and purge the negative feelings that creep up due to the quasi-failure to complete the goal.

Yesterday, I finally started again, but I am having plenty of trouble dragging the words out into the light. They are rabid, photophobic badgers who prefer the dank recesses of the mind, and fight tooth and nail to remain. Even this blog post, in its relative brevity, has been a battle.

Writer contemplates amorphous block.

I opt to participate in the school of thought that does not fully believe in writer's block. In my mind, it's a crutch, or an excuse, and not something I need. Still, I recognize that writers do, in fact, sometimes have trouble, and I am currently a writer in trouble.

Besides, I have a bandoleer full of excuses hanging in my proverbial closet (next to the Class 3 radiation suit with the big guacamole stain on it... don't ask), which are readily available should the need arise. (In case the point is not yet painfully clear, when I was younger, my mother suggested I write a book entitled, "An Excuse For Every Occasion.")

Today, I also happened by a particular form of social media, where a particular participant had chosen to give into discouragement and go down in flames - destroying their own work and giving everyone the finger.

This hit me harder than I initially expected.  At first, I viewed it with a cool passivity. "Oh, look, there goes another one." I know, it's insensitive, but it feels like there's always someone spazzing out online.

Then I realized that, sometimes, I feel like I'm just a few steps away from that point. I go to great lengths to not use Twitter, Facebook, and this blog as a sewage processing plant for all of my negative emotions. To be frank, there's too much negativity online, and I'd hate for my rage tweet to be the final molecule that brings the Internet to critical mass (explodey).

Even so, when I get frustrated - and, oh, do I get frustrated - it's tough to not feel like giving up on everything forever and ever. After all, what have I accomplished so far? When I'm disheartened, I'm blind to most good things. It's like the opposite of rose-tinted glasses. I have shit-tinted glasses.

But then the smoke clears. The dust settles. The townsfolk step back, and the guacamole finally stops twitching. I realize that I'm not writing because I can't do anything else, but because I like it. I love it. These thrilling highs and dung heap lows are just a part of the game, and I need to work harder to keep myself on a stable medium to avoid the tumultuous roller coaster effect a bit more. And we're back to...

Discipline.

I shan't carry on about this today. It merely needed mentioning.

Thanks for sitting with me through semi-banal bout of bloggery. I actually feel a bit better, having written this post. It's going to be a rough couple of weeks, getting back into the groove, but maybe I haven't lost my touch after all.

Training for a Caffeine Marathon

Today, we worked to take a picture to accompany my post on WriMos FTW! (Did I mention that's up? Feel free to take a look!)

I wanted to focus upon a marathon theme, and... well, you can see that.. I tried to focus upon a marathon theme!

I'm all in all satisfied with the result, and... intrigued by the other photos that resulted.

Below are the rejected pictures for the post.

Click any image to enlarge... if you dare. 

WriMosFTW? OMGWTFBBQ!

Say again? What's that gaggle of letters you piled onto your blog title like an out-of-work surrealist painter all hopped up on watercolor fumes?

There is, maybe, one thing I did not make clear in my first post: I may talk a bit in a circle, flinging about a bit of non-traditional imagery to accomplish a specific goal. I confess I do not always accomplish my goals; after all, communication is a two-way street. It doesn't matter how much I feel like I've done well saying something, if you don't get it, communication is not working.

Anyway, back to the Subject At Hand.

Much of what helped give me the proverbial kick in the pants is NaNoWriMo, and my desire to participate in said event. I got back on Twitter (though, to be fair, I'd never really used it before), and began to connect with writerly types.

Oppressively long story cut short by the Editing Machete of Longwindedness Doom (+2), I found myself caught in a flurry of tweets (with surprisingly few feathers flying, to my disappointment) with people such as the illustrious @LynMidnight, who, crazy person that she is, decided that a networking blog for NaNoWriMo was just the thing to help people slog through the rough times, and share the glorious times as well.

Thus, through the tears, laughs, agitations, and not-nearly-enough-flying-feathers, WriMosFTW was born.


The site features guest blog posts from both Once and Future Participants, and NaNoNoobs like me. (On second thought, that actually looks kind of tacky... let's make a deal, you and me, to never, ever mention this term again. Okay? Done.)

It's a great place to receive encouragement and insight, and to find other writers with whom you may connect. We're all in this together... separately, but together! I strongly encourage you, reader, to check out the site, and if you are participating, maybe even give @LynMidnight a shout-out... she is still seeking blog posts for November.

As a side-note, my guest blog will be posted on Wednesday. Is this shameless self-promotion? Maybe. I'm actually pretty excited, because this is the first time in a while that anyone has purposefully put something I've written 'out there'. (No comment on the apparent lack of sanity in said decision...) It's an awesome place to be, and I'm glad to share my thoughts on the matter.

Speaking of which, @LynMidnight gave me a shiny badge to post on my blog, for participating in WriMosFTW. Behold, dear reader, and bow before its might!

Oh, yeah. I'm, like, official now.

...

So...

When do I get my Beretta?