writing – Sam Stark

Short Story Published in Flame Tree’s “Strange Lands Anthology”

Hello, this is a repost of my short fantasy/horror story that was published in “Strange Lands”, which you can find here: https://blog.flametreepublishing.com/fantasy-gothic/gothic-fantasy-successful-submissions-strange-lands

Enjoy!

Wondrous Grot and Secret Cell

As the last sliver of sunlight disappeared behind the battlements, the king glanced around warily at his advisers and then waved one gnarled finger in the air.

“Open the gate!” he commanded.

Iron chains protested the strain of lifting the great portcullis. Hinges screamed and gears turned in a shuddering, rhythmic clang as the mouth to the castle dungeon opened for the first time in months. A gust of foul air expelled from the darkness smelling of piss, rancid meat, and wet animal fur. The guards around the entrance held their ground but most turned their faces away, grimacing.

Malak adjusted his cloak and watched the portcullis rise. He glanced up and saw the stones of the gatehouse tremble and shake. The ancient castle was on its last legs. It was an old, dead thing. A rotting corpse of a once great dragon that could easily have been taken apart by one strong storm from the Cerulean Sea, had it not been so far inland.

The king waited until the gate was open halfway and then waved his hand, signaling the men at the winch. When the grinding stopped, he gripped the arms of his wooden throne and started to pull himself up, his frail frame protesting, joints creaking. Two of his advisors moved to assist him, but he snarled and slapped their hands away.

Once he was upright, he hobbled the few steps to the edge of the platform and addressed the three standing in the center of the courtyard. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his sallow forehead, and spittle clung in tiny white balls to the spiderweb wisps of his beard. When he spoke, yellow teeth flashed between cracked lips, and a voice like dry leaves rattled up from his throat.

“You have until the morning—that is of course, if you survive that long. If you do manage to kill it, I want you to bring me its head. That monster killed my son, you will give it no quarter.”

Malak looked at the two standing at his right and left. The man was a mercenary, tall, lumbering, with a greataxe strapped to his back. The woman was a huntress, thick with muscle and covered in scars. She carried a crossbow and a long sword.

They would probably be dead in a few minutes.

Malak turned back to the king. The old man was twitchy, nervous, and despite the glassy quality of his eyes, his wildly shifting gaze put everyone around him on edge. Silence permeated the courtyard for a moment before the king stamped his foot and barked, “Well? Are you just going to stand there!? Off with you!”

The woman moved first, pulling the crossbow from her back and holding it at a low ready as she made her way toward the dungeon’s entrance. A guard stepped forward to hand the mercenary a lit torch and the big man took that in favor of pulling out his greataxe. Malak followed the two silently, his daggers hidden in secret places no one would understand.

As the three moved under the stone gatehouse, Malak glanced down at painted symbols of purple and gold on the cobblestones. The colorful shapes flickered under the torch like jewels in candlelight. All of the symbols were familiar, but he did not recognize their exact meaning.

“The hell are these?” the mercenary asked.

“Magician’s wards,” said the huntress. “Keeps the thing below from coming up here.”

They left the symbols behind and started the descent. Soon the cobblestones gave way to gravel, and then to dirt that was wet and smelled of blood and feces. The mercenary made a noise in the back of his throat and covered his mouth with his hand, but the huntress pressed on, seemingly unfazed.

Further down, a thin, translucent slime covered every surface, making clusters of ultramarine mushrooms that grew along the floor on either side of the passage shimmer faintly. Strange colored moss lined the walls and hung from the low ceiling in delicate, green-blue curls. Malak marveled at the moss, it reminded him of mermaid’s hair. Such a strange and beautiful thing to find in the middle of this dank, foul-smelling place.

When the walls widened out into a larger chamber, the three of them stopped to take in the new surroundings.

The space was long, with a stone arch ceiling, and a row of small cells sat at close intervals along each wall. The moss was thicker here, the mushrooms larger. The glow from the strange slime was brighter, illuminating most of the chamber with blue light, or maybe pink. It was hard to say. When Malak turned his head, the colors shifted.

Most of the bars on the cell doors had been bent or broken entirely; snapped in half. Malak knew only a creature possessing extraordinary strength could have broken solid iron bars like those, but that was only one in many interesting things he noticed with his keen eyes.

A few pillars held up what was left of the stone arch, but most of the old structure was on the floor, crumbled and broken from the fall. There seemed to have been twelve pillars at one time. Now there were only three, two on the left and one on the right, all standing aegis over this concrete graveyard.

There were pieces of machinery among the debris, wooden benches attached to large iron gears, long metal tables with strange grooves along the edges fitted with small, rusted filtration systems. There had been pain here, and death; years of violence created and conducted by these contraptions of engineering and science, but now they were all rotting away, slowly swallowed by nature and all its terrible beauty.

There were bones strewn about, ribs, a few feet, a skull or two. Parts of corpses peered out from beneath the larger pieces of broken stones while others were the soil for the largest of the moss beds. Some of the dead were clad in rusted armor, and some had tattered remnants of magician’s robes clinging to what was left of rotted joints. No doubt these had been the adventurers that had come before Malak and his party. They had come looking for fame and glory by slaying the monster trapped beneath the castle, but they had never left, and were now reduced to nothing more than plant food.

The mercenary took a squelching step forward into a thick puddle. When he pulled his foot back, the mess on his boot was more red than brown.

“Ah,” the big man growled low, “this is such shite.”

The huntress nodded. “Let’s just find the thing and kill it so we can get out of here.”

The mercenary scraped the bottom of his boot on a piece of stone and made another noise in the back of his throat.

“What is all this? I mean, what’s down here?”

The huntress had moved ahead to the right. She shrugged. “I heard it was an evil spirit that found its way into the castle during the celebration on Underlife Night. It took over one hundred of the king’s knights to corner it in here, and ten magicians to trap it.”

“Well,” the mercenary chuckled as he made his way left, “that’s a lot of bullocks. I heard whatever it was, was posing as a servant in the castle. It put an evil spell on the prince, bending him to its will and such. One night, the queen hears the prince screaming and finds the poor bastard in his chambers, guts ripped out and this thing sitting on his chest, feasting.”

“Damn…”

Malak listened to their conversation but stayed quiet and unmoving. His left hand hovered over one of his daggers; his eyes watched the ceiling.

“I heard something like that too,” the huntress said as she edged around a large fungus cap and toed open one of the broken cells. “It used to be a girl, and she was a servant here in the castle. But instead of her putting an evil spell on the prince, I heard he fell in love with her on his own and tried to take her by force. Supposedly, the violence awoke some evil thing dormant inside of her.”

The mercenary threw back his head and laughed a great guffaw at the ceiling that rattled the loose pieces of stone at Malak’s feet and shook the hanging moss.

“What a romantic story!”

The huntress growled. “It sounds like some bullshite a man made up. Although, if that is what happened, I hope she really did rip out his heart and eat it. Serves the son of a bitch right.”

The mercenary laughed again. “I don’t care how it happened; I just want that reward. Three-thousand silver pieces will keep me swimming in tits and booze for a year.”

Malak slowly lowered himself into a crouch and his cloak brushed the floor with a soft scrape. While his companions had been inspecting the edges of the room, distracted by their conversation, Malak had been waiting. There, at the highest point in the ceiling where the carved stones had fallen away, a nest of sticks, fungi, and bile had been shaped into something resembling a beehive. It was not large, but big enough for a child, or maybe a small woman to fit inside. Two tiny pinpoints of light had reflected in the torchlight but had disappeared as quickly as they had come. At first, Malak wasn’t sure if he had truly seen them.

Now, he watched as a small, white hand slid out from the nest, followed by a slender wrist. A small, oval face with wide, dark eyes appeared in the opening and Malak shivered with excitement.

Slowly, gracefully, she climbed out of the hideaway, her talons gripping the ceiling. White, leathery wings unfolded, their talon tips stretching silently, readying for flight.

Malak remained where he was, barely breathing. Waiting.

“Hey,” the mercenary said as he heaved a broken stone aside, “you see this?”

“You’ve got the bloody torch on the other side of the room!”

The mercenary sighed and straightened. “But the light from the mushrooms… never mind. Get over here, woman. There’s a—”

A shriek pierced the air and a white shape fell from the ceiling, landing on the mercenary’s shoulders. He cried out, dropped the torch, and flailed his arms trying to reach his greataxe.

“Damnit!” the huntress cried. She lifted her crossbow but the creature was wrapped around the big man so intricately, there was no way to shoot and not hit them both.

The creature tore at the mercenary’s chest with her long talons, her sharp, brilliantly white teeth snapped at his face and neck. The man’s screaming turned wet, and within moments there was so much blood, Malak couldn’t tell exactly what was happening. Fans of crimson rained in perfect arcs across the stones, splashing ribbons of color onto blue mushrooms, turning them a dark, dripping purple.

The huntress unsheathed her sword and sprinted across the chamber to help the mercenary, but Malak knew it was no use. As she neared where he crouched, he braced himself and thrust out his leg. The huntress’ foot caught on his heel, and she went down hard, her face slamming into the dirt. Her sword fell from her hand and slid through mud into the darkness underneath a cluster of fungus and stone.

Sputtering, she turned and looked at him, her dark eyes wide with fury.

“You!” she hissed. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Malak folded his cloak back and pressed a single finger to his lips.

“Wait.”

There was a crash, followed by a wet thud, and both Malak and the huntress looked up to find the mercenary on the ground, greataxe nowhere to be seen. The creature perched on his chest. One last guttural cry bubbled up from the mercenary’s lungs before she reached into his mouth and tore out his tongue.

The huntress’ lips pulled back in a terrible snarl and she pushed herself up on her hands. “Crone’s eyes be merciful! We have to—”

Malak’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the jaw. He used just enough pressure to stop her from speaking, but not enough to truly hurt. Her body stiffened. Fear started to creep into her features and her eyes frantically searched for her sword, or perhaps an escape.

Again, Malak raised a finger to his lips.

“I said… wait.”

The huntress looked at him again, eyes wide and terrified. Malak felt the tension in her muscles, the coil of the spring in her core. She was either preparing to fight or getting ready to flee as soon as he took his hand away.

“She will feed now,” Malak explained quietly. “She will grow calm and it will be easier to communicate.”

The huntress opened her mouth to say something and Malak let her. He released her jaw but put his finger up to his lips one last time as a warning.

“You want to communicate with it?” the huntress hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you? It’s eating the big one—whatever his name was! It tore him apart—”

“They’ve left her down here for months with nothing but rats. What did you expect?”

“I expected we were going to kill her—it!”

Malak shook his head. “That was never my intention. Now listen, I like you. You seem—despite your profession—to be a good person so I will tell you this: Make no moves, make no sounds. Whatever happens, you stay silent and still until I say otherwise. If you do that, you will live. If you don’t, you will die. I give you my word.”

The huntress blinked at him stupidly. “What?”

“Swear you will stay still and silent!” Malak growled.

“Okay!” the huntress cried and shrank back. “Okay, all right! I swear!”

Malak nodded and watched as she slid underneath the broken remains of a table. He really did like her. There was no way she could have known what she was getting herself into. She was not at fault.

When Malak straightened and turned back to the unfolding carnage in the center of the chamber, he thought about the mercenary and winced. The man was collateral damage yes, but even though he had been a crass, rude, and generally unpleasant person, Malak still felt a little guilty for leading him to his death.

Blood soaked the crumbled remains of stone pillars. It pooled in thick, dark puddles that reflected the shimmering glow from hundreds of colorful mushrooms. Strings of flesh had joined the hanging moss along the stone wall, and a large chunk of something hung caught in the broken bars of the closest cell door.

She was still there, crouched on what was left of the mercenary’s chest, pulling away bits from the awful and slipping them into her mouth. Her chewing was quiet, almost dainty, as if she were at tea with her friends, snacking on cakes of flour and fig. Pieces of lung went between her lips like plump dates dipped in gravy.

Malak took a few steps forward and her eyes lifted. They met his gaze and she froze; a slice of intestine halfway to her mouth.

He stopped moving and put up his hands. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her.

She was very small, but from the swell of her breasts, to the curve of her hips, all the way to the graceful lines of her ankles, she was a woman. Her hair was dirty and matted, but long and thick. Her skin was the pale, shimmering pink of a deep-sea pearl, dotted with tiny blue stones the color of the ocean. Her eyes had been deep pools of black during her attack, but now they were gray, almost human. They shone brightly in the blue-pink light, watching him with something that was neither fear nor apprehension, only curiosity.

Malak felt he couldn’t breathe. She was nothing like he had expected, nothing like he had ever dreamed. Carefully, he opened his mouth and spoke in a series of clicks and hums at the back of his throat.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Her eyes widened and she bolted upright. Her wings came out wide and she made a noise like a reed of grass whistling in the wind.

“How do you speak like me?”

At the sound of his birth language on her tongue, Malak felt tears in his eyes.

He smiled softly and clicked, “How do you think?”

His cloak unfolded from his shoulders. The worn, leathery skin, scarred and stiff from disuse, stretched out wide for the first time in years. Shoulders protesting, Malak shook himself, and flapped his dark wings once, testing the joints for motion and strength.

Her lips and teeth were still bloody as her mouth slid open in shock. Her eyes darted back and forth, side to side, taking in the size of him, the idea of him. His wingspan was half again wider than hers, but he was taller than she was; it was to be expected.

“You are...” she whispered, awed.

Malak smiled. “Yes.”

There was only a moment of hesitation, and then she ran to him. She threw herself into his arms and wept. The mercenary’s blood mixed with her tears and ran down Malak’s neck, collecting at the collar of his jerkin. He held her close, heart aching, wishing he had heard about her sooner, wishing he could have come to this place years ago.

“I thought I was the last,” he murmured. “How were you trapped here? What happened?”

“I lost my mother,” she said into his throat. “I wanted to play with the children, so I came through the gates. They chased me, caught me, and brought me down here. Their magic sealed me in, and they did things to me, terrible things! I didn’t want to hurt them, I asked them to stop! I begged! But they kept hurting me! And I was so hungry! When the science men were all gone, they left me all alone. All alone for so long and I was so… so hungry.”

Malak stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “You don’t have to be alone here anymore. I know how to unseal their terrible symbols. You can leave if you want.”

She pulled way and looked up into his eyes. “Can I go with you?”

He nodded. “Of course. You can go wherever you want now. But first,” he put his arms on her shoulders, “let us put an end to the evil people that have done this to you.”

Her smile was wide and bloody, and she giggled as she flapped her wings and danced away from him toward the tunnel entrance.

Malak followed, but stopped where he knew the huntress lay waiting.

“Wait here until the screaming stops. It’ll probably be sometime after dawn.”

The Huntress said nothing, and Malak didn’t wait for an answer.

In the gray morning light, two figures emerged from the city gates. Both were small, and slight. The man was dark-skinned with even darker hair, and he was wearing a brilliant black cloak of scaled leather. The woman was lovely, pale skinned with midnight black hair, and piercing gray eyes. She wore a dress of shimmering white that trailed behind her like smoke on the water.

“Where shall we go?” the woman asked.

Malak smiled and took her hand. “I have a home on the other side of the continent. It’s a long journey, but it’s on a cliff by the sea. You can fly with wyvern children in winter, and in the summer, you can swim with mermaids in the ocean.”

“Will we be safe?”

He nodded. “I will show you how to live like them. Humans aren’t all bad, I promise.”

She looked back at the castle. Smoke billowed from the burning keep, the broken edges of windows winked at her in the morning light. Even from this far away, she could see the blood running from the walls of the battlements. The evil men were dead, they all were dead. The terrible things that had been done to her had been avenged and now she could start anew.

“I think…” she turned back to him and squeezed his hand. “I think I would love that.”

“What do I call you?” he asked.

She frowned and shook her head. “My name was taken from me. I wouldn’t mind if you gave me a new one.”

He looked at her, at the stone gray of her eyes, the black of her hair, the lovely pink of her skin.

“Pearl,” he whispered.

She smiled in a way that made her seem very young. “I like that. What is a pearl?”

Malak pulled her around and took her in his arms. He wiped a single drop of blood from the corner of her mouth with his thumb and then slipped his thumb between his own lips.

“When we get home to the ocean, I’ll show you.”

END

[JSS1]Changed “She” to “The huntress” for clarity.

“Everything you see, I owe to spaghetti.” – Sophia Loren

life, writing

I’m starting Keto today. UPDATE 01-05-22 KETO SUCKS! You can read the rest of the post but the TL:DR version is dayum, Keto is expensive and super annoying! Going back to calorie counting and exercise!

I need to lose a few pounds but I think the main reason I’m getting back on a regulated eating cycle is that it bumps my creativity. Every time I’ve been on some kind of calorie counting kick or low sugar thing or whatever where I’ve had to strictly monitor my food intake, I get a little stricter in my daily living overall. I have a lot of pieces and moving parts in my life and I get through everything more easily if it’s organized. (Bacon twice a day and cheese whenever I want is also kind of cool not going to lie.)

The regiment, or regulation may be a better word, forces me to organize the food in the house and meal plan, which in turn gets me organizing other things. It’s a snowballing effect (wow that actually sounds awful but I swear it’s good). I put things in metaphorical (mostly) boxes so they all fit nicely into a day/week. If everything is in a box, that means writing is in a box, and when it’s time to open that box every day, my brain is ready.

Who knows how it will go? We shall see. I have to be careful sometimes because I get terrible migraines, but so far I don’t think they’ve been effected by what I eat. (Unless I don’t eat, that’s a thing. Low blood sugar is a certain way to migraine hell.) So this should work out? At least I hope? At the very least I know, even if I eventually find I can’t do Keto, I’ll have gotten some writing done and probably cleaned out both fridges and the chest freezer or something.

In other news, I joined the Accidental Renaissance Paintings group on Facebook. It just came up out of nowhere, I’m not even on Facebook that much! But now I’m hooked. The photos are great.

My favorite so far.

I hope everyone is having a wonderful beginning of the week. Say hi to your pets for me.

Venting

life, writing

I need to learn how to not be so hard on myself.

Yeah right.

I am probably the most organized person I know. I’m not crazy anal or anything, and I’m not ODC or whatever, I just have this fairly strict sense of things I need to do in a specific amount of time because I’m a fucking adult and I have things that need to get done. There’s always Something. I’m always doing Something. (Just a side note: this specific amount of time is a week. I don’t know why it’s a week, it’s just the way of things. I live circularly. I write circularly I guess it just makes sense.)

The things (Somethings) that need to get done are all pretty straightforward: Kids have to go to school. That means there’s laundry and lunches to be prepared, which means trips to the grocery store on a schedule (every Sunday and Thursday). That also means doctors appointments, dentist and orthodontist appointments, homework checkups, and the occasional ride to orchestra or home from swim practice. There’s meal planning for the week for the entire family and daily mandatory house cleaning because if I don’t keep up it all goes to hell real fast. Then of course there’s work–real actual day job work, and even though I’m fortunate to have a job that I don’t have to bring home, it’s still nine hours (sometimes ten depending on traffic) that’s being taken up by Something. And then of course there’s the thousand little things, feed the cats, check the litter box, check to make sure there’s litter and food for the cats in the first place–oh and also are there paper towels?

Weekends are family time, bath time, take the kids swimming, D&D with the youth group etc.

Something.

There’s always Something going on, so when I get a few hours to relax or a little “break to write” I’m usually not in the correct headspace to do that. I end up watching anime or binge-watching Midnight Mass (highly recommended btw), or writing a fucking blog post, and I don’t get to that chapter because fuck it’s hard and I don’t want to go back to that scene where I couldn’t figure out why the dialogue isn’t working, and why am I not just focusing on audiobook narrating because it seems to be going better and it’s easier to get jobs that actually pay?

I get really mad at myself if a week goes by and all my time is taken up by Somethings I had to get done and I didn’t have any time to work on my current writing project. Which is a fucking stupid thing to think because there’s always a little extra time. I’m just not always managing it perfectly. There’s always a few hours here and there I could be devoting to placing my ass in my chair and staring at Word. But I’m watching brilliantly written vampire shows and k-pop videos and scrolling through Pinterest for The Raven Cycle fan art because I. Like. It.

And see, that’s what I’m talking about. I spend fifty plus hours a week devoted to work, and then also have to do all this prep for the kids and school, meals, laundry, cleaning, pet care, exercising–Jesus H Christ the list just goes on–and then I expect myself to just be a robot and work some more. Like hours and hours more. No down time needed, writing is fun, we love writing. Writing IS downtime.

Most weeks I do it. Most weeks I’m an exemplary fucking human being, spitting up 12K, sometimes 15K words on top of all this other living and Somethings I do. (Real talk: it’s not all usable. Maybe I keep 8K on average?) And sometimes I get ALL that shit done AND I narrate a fucking audiobook as well. Hell yeah, I’m a machine.

I’m sure this is some kind of trauma. This is probably leftovers from being pressured to be perfect all the time and toss everything that even slightly smells of Second Best.

I really wish I could just chill the fuck out. I want to have a few weeks (months would be nice) of not stressing out over not losing weight, or not writing the best novel ever, or ah fuck I wanted to go to that thing but I’m too tired so I’m a fucking failure of a friend.

I think I actually do a pretty good job. Most of the time.

It’s just once in a while, there’s a lot of Somethings. And I can’t fit in the somethings I want unless I risk burning out. I need to just chill, and think about how many important Somethings I do get done every day. The other somethings will still be around when I have time and the brainpower. I just need to be kinder to myself. I need to be okay with vegging out and watching Squid Game.

I need a fucking vacation.

“The Future Belongs to Those Who Believe in the Beauty of Their Dreams” – Eleanor Roosevelt

audiobook narration, writing

I %100 did not meet my goal of getting a journal post up last week. Oops. I have a good excuse though, promise.

Okay, so, first thing’s first: I have now finished two novel narrations. The first is past the author/publisher’s checks and now it’s on to Audible approval. I should hear back (hopefully) soon. I’ll put the link to it up here, but it’s the billionaire romance so I don’t expect anyone that follows me to actually read (listen to) it. It’s cool, don’t worry about it.

The second is an urban fantasy and that one was really fun to narrate. I got to try out some silly accents, it had a nice range of emotions and style choices, and bonus! The story is kind of fun! It got a little harry there for about a week because I got behind and didn’t have the time I thought I would to record. Well, actually, recording is the easy part. After I record all the chapters, I have to go back through and cut out all my bloopers and that takes FOREVER. Then I have to do a third pass, reading along as I listen to make sure it’s accurate to the actual text. If I’ve messed up a phrase, or flubbed a word or something, I have to go back, record that piece again, and then splice it into the final cut. Waaahh, such a long process! But I did it. I turned it in on the due date and it’s waiting approval now.

I’m trying not to be nervous about it, but there is so much in there, and so many voices and accents they might not like? Bluuuh. Oh well, nothing to do but turn my energies on the next one. This third novel is a drama/military/tragedy and wooaaa it’s heavy. I also have to do it all in a southern accent. It’s not actually that hard, the hardest part is going back to talking normal once I’ve left the studio haha.

All in all I’m loving it. There are so many weird things I wouldn’t have thought of before starting this whole thing. Like, for example, I think Rule Number One of audio narration should be ALWAYS HAVE CHAPSTICK ON HAND. It’s a must, otherwise when your mouth begins to dry up – and it will – your lips start to click and it’s Super Loud on the microphone. Random huh? But good to know.

Also, Jesus Christ AIRPLANES. I forgot I live next to an airport! How many freaking planes fly over my house per hour?? SIX! SIX PLANES AN HOUR!! …It’s cool though, it’s cool. It’s only in the afternoon. Someday I’ll live somewhere quiet and I’ll have an actual studio office with soundproofing…. … someday.

In other news, I’ve also submitted my writing for the Norwescon Writer’s Workshop. I almost didn’t, having had a not-so-great-experience last year. (Maybe I’ll talk about that later bluh.) However, the workshop is where I met my current writer’s group, and I’ve already made so many good connections through the process that it would be irresponsible of me not to try and do it again. I submitted the first chapter of my horror/thriller+superheros novel, so that should be fun. If I make it in, I hope everyone gives me the “superhero trend is dying out” speech so I can punch them. Not really. But maybe.

Okay, I think that’s all the major things that have happened in the past few months. I hope everyone is doing well, and that things are looking up for you in this new year. If you ever feel lonely or need someone to talk to about… well, anything, but mostly nerdy stuff, hit me up. I am down for feelings jams, especially if we get to scream about anime or awesome tv shows or something.

Love your pets, be nice to people, and have a good one!

You Could Fry An Egg On My Face

life, writing

It’s hot.

I know if you’re reading this from somewhere like Florida or Texas or something you’re thinking “haha, no it’s not” but goddamnit. It’s hot for Seattle okay? I’m not a fan of the sun, or the beach, or generally nice weather because again, I am from Seattle. I like rain. I love rain. And overcast. Damp is what flows through the blood of the Seattleite. So anything coming even close to 80 degrees is climbing too far; reaching too high. Slow your roll there, partner.

I’ve made the most of it by staying inside as much as possible, but I have a three and a half year old that also happens to be a sunflower. With my first it was okay, because like me he’s a vampire, but now I’m forced to go outside in the bright and the glare and the colors and bugs and do things. We have a huge umbrella over the patio table and that’s been quite the life-saver, especially when we BBQ. I mean I guess I could sit on the other side of the screen door in the air conditioning while my family plays outside and eats ribs and stuff, but thinking about it, that seems kind of depressing. No, I’ve been trying for real. I bought bird feeders and squirrel feeders and I leave out peanuts for the crows and raccoons. We have jays and woodpeckers and these little fat, round birds that look like the blue guys from Angry Birds. It’s great. Makes it all worth it. Animals are awesome.

A lucky side effect to the sun and the playing outdoors is my youngest gets tuckered out sometimes and has to chill for a bit, giving me some time to work on things. I’ve gotten through all the terrible, soul-crushing, teeth-pulling rewrite edits of the novel’s first few chapters, and now I’m actually getting to write some new stuff. It’s still rough, and I’m going to try and work through some of it with my writer’s group when we meet at the end of the month, but I’m also really happy that there’s an end in sight. Sort of.

Oh, I also sold a story. My short horror-fantasy work will be featured in Flame Tree Press’ Strange Lands Anthology coming out in November. It’s going to be a pretty great compilation of stories so check it out if that kind of thing interests you. Here’s a link so you can check it out.

http://blog.flametreepublishing.com/fantasy-gothic/gothic-fantasy-successful-submissions-strange-lands

The cover is so cool. It’s like a tome, or a Grimoire. I’m super excited to have it on my shelf.

I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy, wearing your masks and observing social distancing. At least you better be because I’m ready for this to be over, please and thank you.

Love your pets, treat people with respect, unless they’re complete assholes that don’t deserve your respect, and have a great week!

Double Trouble – More Work Makes It Easier…?

writing

I was thinking of this blog last night and started feeling guilty because I haven’t updated in a while. Truth is, I don’t have much to update. I’m still writing, still plodding through a manuscript that needs thousands of words of overhaul. It’s still too long, even if most of it is still only in my head. I’ve taken to putting names down in an Excel spreadsheet because forgetting characters is a thing. It’s rough because I saw the light at the end of this tunnel, or I thought I did, about seven months ago, but that was either an illusion, or the tunnel has made itself longer. Fuck you tunnel.

However, those of you that followed me though my years of fanficiton, you know that I actually do better when I’m writing more than one thing at a time. Having trouble with a twenty chapter Naruto fic? That’s okay, start a seven chapter One Piece story. Granted, this usually turned into both stories ending somewhere in the thirty-five chapter, 185,000 word range, but the point is I sometimes can organize my thoughts a little better if I… add projects? That doesn’t even make sense.

I started that horror story. Finally. I really like it so far. It’s so nice to sit down and write something in the current now and in our own universe so I don’t have to stop every paragraph and world-build. I love world-building, don’t get me wrong, but damn, it’s tiring. This horror story will be heavily character based and will offer up some juicy bits of my favorite horror genre – body horror. Also, possible interdimensional monsters because I can’t seem to get away from that.

I’m sure someone is reading this thinking “yeah okay, add projects and nothing will ever get done, you idiot” because that’s what I initially thought but I think it will be okay. My writer’s group made a channel on Discord where we put out goals for the year. I really only have two: 1) getting a first draft of my fantasy novel completed and up for the writers group to read 2) starting and finishing my new horror novel. So not that bad. I can do this.

Some other good news, I made the Norwescon writer’s workshop again this year. I’m really excited to meet some more potentially great writers, get some helpful feedback, and of course get that sweet, sweet networking. Claire Eddy, the executive editor for Tor Books, is the professional guest of honor this year, and if she were participating as a clinician that would be killer. Not that I think my stuff would ever be published by Tor, but I’m sure she would be a great person to know.

So I guess I was wrong. I started this entry with “don’t have much to update” and ended having plenty to talk about. Whatever, with that I’ll sign off. I hope everyone is having a good beginning of the year. Hope you are all petting your cats and dogs and other critters every day. Hope you are eating well and taking care of yourself. Good luck in anything you are striving for, and have a great day/week.

NaNoWriMo 2019

writing

NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month.

I was sure I was never going to do it again because the last few times I participated, I realized the pressure of putting out a specific amount of words in a short period of time drives me absolutely fucking bananas. The result is usually a massive writer’s block or sickness or something. I have a regular word output every month that’s fairly decent, so it just wasn’t worth it.

However, I did decide to participate this year because a good friend of mine from my writing group is participating. He’s a great writer and puts everything he has into every piece he creates, so I thought I would support him. I decided to go to a few write-ins and meet some people in the community, work on the novel, take it easy and not stress if I couldn’t make the deadline. Basically just commune with some folks that are going through the same thing as me, have similar goals, that kind of thing.

Turns out the Nanowrimo community is awesome. Huh. Who would have thought?

It’s cool to chill with like-minded people. I’m always around a lot of artists and creators, but those people are mostly musicians, or literal artists. I don’t really know any writers besides my writing group. And even though my writing group is becoming like a second little family, I don’t ever see them. It’s nice to be in the same room as a bunch of writers and talk face to face with people that are just as excited about proper grammar and world building as you are. It really is. I didn’t know I needed it.

Turns out I can pump out 50,000 words on command, because I hit the deadline a few days ago, and today is halfway through the month. I feel sort of shitty though because I came into it not taking the whole thing very seriously, but finished quickly when people are still working so hard and so diligently with all their hearts. But I had a good idea and I ran with it. (It’s martial arts boys falling in love in the middle of the zombie apocalypse. Sound familiar? Yeah, I thought so.)

It’s not good. Let’s get that straight right off. It’s definitely not good, but it’s words on the page and it felt good.

I hope everyone else doing Nanowrimo is doing well, meeting their goals, heading to that finish line and all that. If not, I hope you’re still happy with what you’re doing and accomplishing because that’s what matters.

Good luck! 健闘!!

Backlog Post #2

writing

Originally Posted 06/17/2019

Today I’m going to try and explain the comments about writers groups in my last post, because, if I can, I want to save as many people as possible from stumbling into the same trap I did. Also, I’m not the first person to write a blog post about this so don’t come here expecting to learn anything new. This is just my personal experience.

Okay, where to begin? Well, let’s go back a bit.

I started looking for a writer’s group in 2011, but I only went to two meetups. The first was only three other people and they all just talked about their book ideas because apparently, no one in the group had actually fucking written anything yet. The other group was a bunch of older people reminiscing about how great their writing careers used to be. They had also not written anything in years. So I basically said “screw this” and stopped looking for a writing group because I don’t have time for that kind of shit.

Fast forward to 2018. There I was, twelve years later and 1,293,759+ words published online. Granted, more than half of that was fanfiction, but it was still writing. I was still creating stories that people were reading every day. I also had a nice chunk done on my first original novel and I needed someone to read it. Someone who was not my best friend or my husband and might actually have some experience. Don’t get me wrong, my husband and best friend are amazing and I don’t know what I would do without them, but they read my stuff to tell me how awesome I am, not to critique. I recommend this for all aspiring writers. Sometimes you just need cheerleaders.

Anyway, back to the story. I braved Meetup again, despite my reservations, and found a group that sounded promising. This group meets twice a month at a cute cafe in Seattle and they are relatively serious about their work. They even have this thing where whoever wants their stuff critiqued, submits their work in a file on the group page so people can download and read it before the meetup. Holy shit awesome. So I signed up, downloaded the submissions that were going to be discussed, and got super excited.

I have to say those first few sessions were pretty cool. The group follows the Milford Style of critiquing, which is great. In Milford, you go round robin and everyone gets a turn talking about the submitted work, while the author says nothing. Responding to the critique comes after everyone speaks. There’s also a time limit of 3-5 minutes for every critiquer. Simple. There were some really fun stories and the camaraderie was really uplifting. I felt inspired for the first time in a long time, and knowing I had a group of writers that I could turn to if I was really stuck was amazing. By the fourth session I was ready to bring in my own stuff. I submitted the first chapter (maybe chapter and a half?) of my novel and got it critiqued the next weekend. It went really well, got a lot of positive feedback, and I felt pretty good about it.

Now, this is where it starts to get hard to explain.

I want to make one thing clear first: I’m not writing this post about a writer’s group I think is bad because I wrote something and they didn’t like it. No no. The group actually went out of their way to tell me that my writing is actually quite good, excellent in fact. The problems with this group go much deeper so just bear with me as I try to explain the fuck-uppary.

I think I need to explain groupthink before I continue. And since I’m lazy, I’m going to copy-paste from Wikipedia because their synopsis is quick and dirty. Here you go:

“Groupthink is a psychological phenomenon that occurs within a group of people in which the desire for harmony or conformity in the group results in an irrational or dysfunctional decision-making outcome. Group members try to minimize conflict and reach a consensus decision without critical evaluation of alternative viewpoints by actively suppressing dissenting viewpoints, and by isolating themselves from outside influences.

Groupthink requires individuals to avoid raising controversial issues or alternative solutions, and there is loss of individual creativity, uniqueness and independent thinking. The dysfunctional group dynamics of the “ingroup” produces an “illusion of invulnerability” (an inflated certainty that the right decision has been made). Thus the “ingroup” significantly overrates its own abilities in decision-making and significantly underrates the abilities of its opponents (the “outgroup”). Furthermore, groupthink can produce dehumanizing actions against the “outgroup”.”

Basically, groupthink is a weird phenomenon where individual members of a small group tend to accept a viewpoint or rationalization that represents a perceived group consensus. The consensus might not even be valid, or real, or even for the best, it’s just a consensus that avoids conflict. Everyone agrees so that no one disagrees because conflict is hard to deal with.

Groupthink is so fucking prevalent in this writer’s group, it’s insane. There are three (maybe four?) people who I would label the “ingroup”. Two of them are moderators, unfortunately, and the other two are writers that are considered “semi-professional” within the community because they’ve had a few (like one, maybe two) short stories published in a magazine. These four people write in the same genre (fantasy/sci-fi), have basically the same ideas for how a story is supposed to go (it’s weirdly specific), and all have a strange hatred of men?? One of them is a man, so this last one is extra weird to me.

So these four individual’s ideals sort of run the whole show. When things that are not Sci-fi or fantasy, or some off-shoot of those two genres is submitted, everyone kind of turns up their noses at it. There is always a much harsher critique of male characters than female, and there is usually a discussion of the structure if the submission doesn’t follow the formula this group likes. Also, and this is the weirdest part, when stories are being worked on in the session and we’re starting the round robin, you can feel a shift in the atmosphere as one of these four people speak. It’s like everyone is waiting for them to talk because they need to know the direction this critique is taking.

It feels like a hive mind. It took me almost seven months of attending these sessions before I realized that everyone has stopped writing for themselves. Nothing is completely original anymore. I mean, there are good ideas for sure, and some great characters, but it’s all mashed into these unspoken guidelines because everyone is just writing for the group.

All of this is totally unintentional. I have no hard feelings when it comes to this particular thing. Groupthink is just something that happens and I feel so sorry for the ten or so writers that come every week, desperate for feedback from their trusted writing group but are just getting a bunch of personal feelings and convoluted advice back. It sucks. They’re pretty much stuck in this loop of struggling writing while being critiqued by other struggling writers so there’s never any real solutions to things that aren’t working. The work never gets truly polished, just molded into another story that works within the expectations of this group.

Okay. I’ve been nice up to this point. Now it’s time to get fucking real.

The group definitely looks for things to critique, not bits they don’t understand or parts that aren’t working. They definitely will read something and if there’s nothing really glaring or obvious, instead of just talking about how they liked it, they will go out of their way to pick at something completely, COMPLETELY irrelevant. “Would a dog really cock its head like that?” “Are you sure her hair is limp after being in the rain? This line about its dampness really took me out because you talked about it being thick in the last chapter.” “This section really took me out because I just don’t think he would pet the cat.”

Drives. Me. Fucking. Nuts.

If you like something, just say you like it and move on. Are you trying to show off? Are you showing us how superior you are by noticing something wrong when the rest of us missed it? It’s a CAT. He just stopped to pet the cat for like three seconds, it doesn’t matter! And what’s worse, is that after one of the four leaders does something like that, the weird groupthink thing will kick in and then everybody will start commenting on how “oh yeah, that took me out too! why is he petting the cat? it’s so strange!” when two minutes ago no one cared about that bit at all.

When I got to the Norwest Con Workshop, I voiced some concerns over my novel that were brought up by the Groupthink writer’s group and everyone kind of scratched their heads. The Norwest Con group responded with: No, my protagonist was actually very sympathetic. No, the magic absolutely made sense. And my favorite: No, you can absolutely have humor during an intense fight scene. It was so wonderful, the relief that flowed through me was almost painful. The members of the Norwest Con Workshop gave me solid critique, plus a ton of encouragement and inspiration, and basically shot down everything the Groupthink group said about it.

By the end of the Norwest Con weekend, Groupthink writer’s group was a kind of a joke. Neil Clarke told me flat out I should just find another writer’s group because if they were making me this discouraged and giving me bonkers critique, I shouldn’t associate myself with them. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but Neil is a professional. It’s taken me weeks to get past my doubts and to realize that I was truly in a toxic writing environment, but I think now I’m finally getting over it.

I haven’t gone back, to the Groupthink writer’s group I mean. And I haven’t spoken to anyone in the group since, besides when I ran into a few of them at Norwest Con. (More on that later because it’s insane.)

Sometimes I slip and think “no, I overreacted, they were all pretty good writers and they were just trying to help me”, but then I look back at my work and I think “no, this is good stuff and I feel good about it.” And that’s what it boils down to. Write because you love it, and learn to love what you write. I guess I just don’t want anyone to get stuck like I did. Writer’s groups are great, but you need to not rely on them for everything. Don’t take everything they say to heart because it’s very likely none of them are professionals. Use them for accountability, for camaraderie, and inspiration, but don’t make a writing group your sole source for feedback.

I also have to add one last little thing because it’s another weird quirk about Groupthink group.

They have very strange taste in books. According to the mods, Dune by Frank Herbert is in the same realm as Twilight: a book that somehow got popular but is actually written badly and has no plot. Also, Steven King’s books are contrived and are all so similar to each other that they’re unreadable. Also, there should never be sex in books because it’s always silly and ruins the flow if it’s something other than romance.

?? …So apparently I also have terrible taste I guess?

Anyway, that’s it for today. Maybe now, dear readers, you will understand my mindset for the last few months. I’ve experienced writer’s block before, but up until now, it’s all been internal. External writer’s block is a bitch. Stay away from that shit.

Have a good week everyone! Wash your face, clip your nails–try not to bite them. Always pet your pets (unless you have fish, don’t pet fish).

Backlog Post #1

Uncategorized, writing

Originally Posted 06/09/2019

I always start these things with something about not updating in a while and how sorry I am, but I’m skipping that part this time. I am not sorry for not updating since December because I’ve had a hell of a couple months (well, actually five, and that’s like half a year almost? jeez).

Norwest Con was pretty amazing–and awful at the same time. I’ll talk about the amazing parts because the bad parts have nothing to do with writing and I want to talk about writing.

The Norwest Con workshop was one of the best things I have ever done for myself. It was enlightening, inspirational, helpful, motivating, and everything else I could have ever wanted. Neil Clarke of Clarkesworld Magazine was my group’s clinician, and besides being the most precious cinnamon roll on the planet, he was a bubbling fountain of useful information about the publishing industry. I am and will forever be so grateful for his help and advice. The other thing that made this workshop so amazing was the fact that my group got along so well! We like each other so much, and appreciate each others writing and critique so much that we formed our own writer’s group that meets once a month. It’s so so so so amazing because, for the first time, I feel like I’m actually getting real feedback. REAL and HELPFUL feedback from writers I respect and admire–and that, I kid you not, is like finding treasure. Holy shit good writing groups are so hard to find. (More on that in the next post.)

Besides the workshop, I also got to participate in a couple of really good writing classes. At first, I felt like I didn’t need them because they were for things like plot structure and character building, and I feel pretty solid in those two things, but oh ho ho. I am a fledgling writer with delusions of grandeur and am very nieve about a lot of things. Never turn down the opportunity to learn from a professional. Never. Not only did I glean a fuck-ton of useful information about writing in general, but I also made a few really good connections. Totally worth it. It was awesome.

So that was the good stuff. I’m going to keep the bad stuff to a minimum because I feel like it deserves its own post. Yeah, it’s that complicated. Let’s just summarize it today as: I was extremely drained by the end because some people don’t have a filter and don’t have the social know-how to know when it’s time to stop talking. I’m too nice and I paid for it. (It also ties into the cryptic statement I made about writing groups, so again, more on that later.)

Okay, some rando stuff besides Norwest Con:

My other writing has been going well. My horror story is almost done, and I’ve got a few other short horror story ideas in the works. I’ve decided to do an anthology!

We went on our first family vacation! We drove down to California in a trailer and saw some family. The short version of that is that is was really fun and I’m glad we did it.

Crypticon was in May. Awesome. My daughter went as Jigsaw the puppet and that went over very well, also saw some really great cosplay, and my best friend and I got to watch some new independent films that were screening. I will probably talk more about that later too.

My daughter who started hip hop dance at the beginning of this school year had her first dance recital and it was awesome. Very stressful, but awesome.

And I’ve lost another 10 pounds, which I am quite proud of.

I hope you all are doing well. Don’t be afraid to stop by here or on Facebook or Instagram and say hello. I don’t bite very hard. Stay cool as the weather gets hotter. Drink water, wash your hair, wear lip balm, exfoliate, pet your dog or cat or snake, etc. Take care of you. Have a good week!