On the last Friday the Thirteenth the Architect and I purchased our first home. It's been a long time coming, but we finally took the leap. Actually, it wasn't much of a leap, considering we purchased the very house we've been renting for the past five years. The market was right, the price was right (thanks, Bob), and there was grant money for rehabbing it to be seized.

The house is in a historic section, but I wouldn't go so far as to call it historic. It's a nineteen-twenty econo-box that closely resembles one shoebox stacked on top of another--long and narrow. There are asbestos shingles outside and (was) plaster and lead paint on the inside. It was long overdue for a remodel and since one of us (guess who) happens to be an architect with extensive construction/carpentry skills, we decided to go for it.

So, the past month has been crazy. We've jammed all our stuff into two upstairs rooms. We've pulled down plaster (did you know they used to hold that crap together with horsehair?), pulled up floor boards and joists, pulled down the staircase and filled an entire twenty-three foot dumpster with the rubble. I've learned to carry everything from food plates to bags full of laundry up and down the twenty-eight foot ladder that now serves as our staircase. I've taken out entire walls by myself, stepped on a nail, gotten an eye infection and have felt simultaneously the most frustrated and accomplished I have ever felt--aside from writing a whole novel, that is.

Speaking of, on the writing front there's not much going on. My desk is jammed into a tiny corner of a room that has the aura of a flea market/antique store. When I'm not doing smaller jobs or trying to keep the massive clouds of dust in check, I'm just plain exhausted and my workspace is less than conducive to creativity. But, I do have most of the plot of "Green" worked out, so once things calm down, all I'll need to do is write it. I know that sounds silly, but for me plotting is the most difficult stage of novel writing. Submissions for "Resonance" are also on hold for the moment; my printer decided to die last month and I don't have the time to run back and forth from Kinko's fetching copies. But, looking back at my last rejection, I've come to the realization it is a very positive one, which has encouraged me to keep going once I regain my bearings.

Well, it's almost five-thirty. That's when the Architect gets home and we don our filthy clothes and earn a few more bruises and muscle aches. We'll work until ten or eleven tonight, and then turn around and do it all over again tomorrow.

I'd say sorry for being such a posting slacker, but after so many times it just sounds insincere.

Well, here we go again. I click around my friends’ pages a while, mess with my profile (always to its detriment) and then realize I haven’t written in this thing for many moons. Then, I get on here, spend the first several sentences rationalizing why I haven’t posted, blame it all on my other blog, and then move on to telling you what I’ve been up to writing-wise. Well, the rest is all bull, so I’ll just get down to the what and when.

Before Christmas I sent out a handful of submissions, all of which came back as variations of, "No." My absolute favorite was my own letter, mailed back to me with, "Not for us, but thanks," scrawled across the bottom. Ah, it’s prom time all over again...

Deciding my hefty word count was pulling me down like a concrete floaty in the ocean, I went back and lopped an additional twenty thousand words off the behemoth. That took the total count from "ridiculous" to plain "huge"--yet still twenty thousand shy of acceptable industry standards for fiction. Luckily, us fantasy writers seem to have a little more leeway than mainstream, and that allowance just might let me get my foot in the door--possibly. Maybe. You know, these gunboats of mine ought to have some sort of benefit at some point (other than letting me purchase the extra fancy queen shoes).

Now, I’m working on my short synopsis. If you were actually paying attention to the above detailing of my current project, you’ll notice I’m not too good with the brevity. In fact, I suck. So, I’ve spent the past two days--over eighteen hours--trying to compress my novel into two brilliant, engaging, plot-delivering, suspenseful pages. And, to my complete surprise, I’m actually getting there. I’m not there, yet, mind you, but getting there is something, isn’t it?

Oh, and my favorite band, Ministry is calling it quits. One more show, one more chance to get a boot print on my forehead, and then it’s all over. April 29, Philly. Be there, or be the square you play on TV.






You’re killin’ me, Al.


**UPDATE** March 19, 2008. I just got my Ministry tickets in the mail. Printed on the tickets themselves is, "Last show ever." You really are killing me, Al.

My new strategy is--I'm gonna exhaust the system. Overwhelm it. Inundate it. Flood the Powers That Be with my name and work. For every short story rejection that lists a vague host of possible ills--including a potential 'tired' subject or horrific grammar--I'm going to send out three more. For each of my own queries I get back with barely legible poo-poos scrawled in tiny letters on the bottom right corner, I'm going to toss ten more into the Ether. Like Superman and herpes, I'm going to be everywhere, at every moment, lurking on everyone's desk...

Okay, I don't actually believe either Superman or herpes are just hanging out on the desks of the literary world's elite corps of gatekeepers, but you know what I mean.

This business is disheartening, at best. The scrawled, "Thanks, but no," are much easier to digest than the ones that actually make some sort of personal reference to your work. And when there are multiple stories out there and ALL are being kicked to the curb, well, it becomes difficult not to hear the voice in your head that says it's not just the story that isn't right, it's YOU. But, that's the way things are in this business. Sink or swim. Work hard, revise, and keep going, or retreat back into your safe little world of toiling away for zero audience.

So, if you'll excuse me, I have a little blue slip of paper to affix to my dartboard.

Twenty-three gram Hammerhead Devastators, meet Impersonal Rejection Letter Number Seven.

Well, it's official. I haven't had this many rejections since high school. Not since my twitchy teens (when hair metal was on its way out and grunge wasn't quite in, and my head was a cotton candy cloud of spiral perm and hairspray) have I had this many people tell me, "No, thanks," while rapidly backing away.

Okay, they might not have been backing up. But, they could have been. I wouldn't know; all of my correspondence has been via rapidly shrinking pieces of paper typed with abrupt denials. But, since I'm all about the personal flashbacks right now, I'll follow the path of my dating history and keep at it--

Until someone feels sorry for me.

Seriously, though, I'm doing okay with all of the spurning. I send out a new query for every rejection, thereby keeping the stream of hope alive and running--albeit a little murkier than when I began.

Christmas is almost here once again. Last year I was baking like Betty Crocker on crack. This year, I've considered myself fortunate if I make dinner once a week that doesn't involve a rice cooker and some vegetables, or tuna fish. So, I'm thinking the baking won't be getting done this year. Maybe it's because I'll be headed south for a while this season and I'm not feeling the eighty-degree Christmas thing. Or, maybe it's because I've grown lazy enough that even the concept of making tons of treats brimming with sugar (my favorite ingredient) can't pry my butt from this computer chair.

Speaking of computers, I'm supposed to be starting on the outline for my next (stand alone) book. I have most of the details hammered out for the sequel to Resonance, but at this point I don't see the sense in writing a second when I can't get anyone to even look at the first. This next novel is another dark fantasy, this time with a fictional urban setting. I think I might be dipping my toes in speculative fiction with this one, but only a little bit. Mostly, it's contemporary fantasy. And, of course, there will be characters of the alternative ilk, many demons, and lots of plot twists and major life upheavals (hopefully just for the characters and not for me).

Since I've been so horrible in keeping up with this journal, I'm going to go ahead and wish you all a very merry/happy Christmas/Hanukkah/Yule/Kwanzaa/New Year's. If I left out any other holiday, I wish you a very good one of those, too.

See you in the New Year.

Oh yeah, and I'm a chick.

Go figure.

I slammed my finger in the window this morning. By itself, that act isn't a big deal. But, when combined with all the other mutilating events I've put my fingers through in the past few months, I have to wonder, am I sabotaging myself?

It all started on a torrid July evening. The mint in the backyard was heady and sweet. The thick air hung with a single word, "Mojito." Helpless to evade the call, I grabbed my scissors and began to cut away at the verdant stems--only to hack off part of my middle finger's tip in the process. From that moment on, I've repeatedly sliced myself with kitchen knives, grated the skin off of my knuckles trying to use a paint scraper, slammed my fingers in doors and windows, and once again revisited the scissor scene--thankfully on a much less severe level.

So, the question is, am I simply going through a clumsy phase, or am I subconsciously trying to make my already difficult professional life harder? Because I'm guessing (and this is only a guess) typing's going to be much more of a pain in the ass with nubs.

I've sent out two more queries to agents and have been--between mutliations--working on the plotting for the next couple of books. I haven't heard back from agency number one. While I haven't exactly written them off, I've decided I need some sort of momentum, and forward is indeed the best direction available. To bring me back to my point, I feel like I'm balancing on a tightwire between action and inaction, results and inconclusiveness. Could it be my mental push forward spurred some latent unwillingness, one which manifested into a compulsion to destroy the very appendages that make this career possible? Can it be I want to remain in this stasis I profess to hate? Am I trying to cut off my own fingers out of fear?

Yeah, that last bit was a little much, wasn't it? I couldn't help it; the university I briefly attended was small and the good classes always filled up, leaving freshman to fill their schedules with whatever was left, just to keep their full-time status. As a result, I took enough psych classes in three semesters to fufill the requirements of a minor in psychology. So, on occasion, I like to pretend that colossal waste of money wasn't entirely useless, and I indulge in a little fanciful psychoanalysis. Even so, the writer in me wants to make more out of my self-inflicted injuries than there probably is.

You know, they say idle hands do the Devil's work. Maybe Old Nick has a thing for digits and mine have come up on his radar. I guess that means only one thing; I need to work harder and type faster. It's always more difficult to hit a moving target.