Dreaming in Red

Why SOPA is made of fail

2012-01-18T20:37:00.000-08:00

I was talking on Twitter today with a friend about SOPA—as were most of us, I'm sure. Hot button topic. Really should have blogged about it about 7 hours ago, but I was at work and I needed to collect my thoughts.

Let me give you the Twitter answer: My thoughts are if SOPA passes, we're all learning to hack.

And now, I shall exposit.

Our notion, as a society, of timeliness is drastically shorter than any society before us. Hell, it's shorter than our notion of it was five years ago. We forget that. We also forget that we have a generation who have grown up with the expectation of instant access to information and media.

When a distribution system won't deliver on that expectation, that generation does what any innovative group of people do: They create a subsystem to resolve the issue.

That's what peer to peer sharing—piracy—is. Hacking a system that is no longer efficient for a growing majority of its users. And that is why no amount of legislation created by people who don't understand our evolving notion of timeliness will be effective against piracy.

Passing SOPA would be like legislating horseshoes to repair tires. Seriously, how does that help anyone? Horseshoes won't even fit around tire rims.

Another notion that's evolving is our sense of geography. The internet, aside from not being a series of tubes, is also not a physical space. It's everywhere. All at once. (Except, perhaps, China—but, guess, what? They're hacking what they perceive to be a broken system, too.)

Our distribution methods for digital media are still being based on practices that apply to distribution of physical media to physical locations. The generation that has grown up online doesn't think of availability as being defined by location—and they aren't willing to wait for people who still do. They seek their media out online because they want it now.

You know who's to blame for this? Us. We have trained them to expect that what they want should be instantly accessible. We have reduced their attention spans; we have diminished their ability to wait.

Us. We created this demand for instant access—and it is our failing when we don't supply it.

We can scold and rant about legality all we want, but it will never resolve either of these underlying factors. Piracy isn't simply about right and wrong. It's a far more complex sociological issue.

In fact, we often go out of our way to compound this very issue we're so dead set on oversimplifying. Example? Most mainstream media providers have obscured the breakdown of payment. You would be amazed how many people have no idea how little creators make off their creations. We need to do something about that.

Also, society's idea of ownership is evolving. If we believe we own what we create, then that means we can't punish those who create transformative art. Memes and fandoms are dialects of our shared digital language. They're forming meeting places for vast groups of people trying to survive our increasingly disconnected world. Nodes on our cultural network.

Canadians are experts at talking about the weather. We can have safe conversations involving the weather with just about anyone. It is the staple of awkward elevator meetings, line waits, and enforced family time.

Memes are a digital equivalent of "is it cold outside." They are often "safe" means of interacting with strangers in this everywhere space we all inhabit. They are ways of reaching out, of filling silences and sharing experiences. They are how we begin to tell stories to one another.

And many of them require a vocabulary dependent on media. If you cut off a person's ability to access the source material or deny distribution of it in a timely manner, you render that person mute during these "safe" conversations. You prevent them from being able to tell us their stories.

One might argue that piracy isn't related to free speech. One might honestly believe that people who pirate are using free speech as a way to defend stealing from one.

I probably won't change your mind. But I honestly believe as long as we continue to oversimplify and insist on only treating the symptoms, we will never cure the disease.

And the paint under my nails

2012-01-15T14:36:00.000-08:00

Quickly, I have signed a contract that keeps me at my current role with Indigo until April 30 2012. This is good because it keeps me through the winter and allows me to see spring in eastern Canada, which I hope is even half as beautiful as fall was. It also allows me to be in town for a friend's release party and many brunches. Oh yes, and I may get a chance to complete my Indie Coffee Pass.

And now a self-indulgent post about writing, where I admit things that I probably shouldn't on the internet. Ah, well.

There is a draft that I have been writing around for more than a year now. It is the manuscript that I cheat on other manuscripts with. It's the thing that I set aside to draft The Lost Art of Killing Dreams. When one is revising, which is probably where I do the majority of the work, one forgets what drafting is like.

It's sloppy and messy and paint gets on the floor, all over your hands and clothes, and under your nails. There is a lot of clean up involved in revision. Not to mix metaphors, but drafting is all about constructing a frame. There's always a point for me where I realize the frame I've built doesn't fit the true shape of the story. One can outline and think they know what a story's about, but it's the writing—the mess-making and building—where one realizes that they were probably wrong.

About 50,000 words into anything, I start to see what the frame needs to be. There's always multiple things that I'm doing in a story, all the questions I'm answering and the talking points I want to discuss. But there's a moment when I realize the way to string all of them together. It is one of the moments of clarity where I identify what is "wrong" with the draft. (Beside that it's unfinished.)

The tricky thing about Eight for Wishing is that it started as its own thing, then it was a reluctant companion for The Tale of Ariake, and then I realized it was logically a sequel. It was this story that nestled around and wove between TALE; it was an alternate filter through which to view that world and its characters. But when you do a sequel, you need a chord that connects the stories together and reason for having it.

I was talking to a friend earlier about this draft, and I said there is a character a reader meets in TALE who has his shit relatively together in comparison to everybody else. He has some things he has to deal with and confront, but he's in a place where he can do that quite a bit easier than the other characters. And the question that I started asking when I returned to throwing words at this first draft of Eight for Wishing is Well, how did he get that way?

That lead to understanding that this second tale I'm trying to tell isn't an epic love story of two younger characters who exist on the edges of the first manuscript. No, it's an epic bromance between a character who barely features in the first story and a character who the reader thinks they know. Because there's a whole other life this character has that we don't see in the first story.

As for if this grand experiment will ever be read by anyone else, I don't even know. Its the follow-up to something on submission, which brings in a whole other set of additional reasons that it may never see mass consumption. But I don't really write first drafts because I want other people to read them. That's a second or third draft.

I write like an oil painting. Not the gossamer way of a Rembrandt, either. I mean a Van Gogh—all those textures and colors you see, that never quite dry and are never quite finished, are layered upon each other more and more and more until they form a cohesive image. Beneath them, painted over and over and over again remains the under-painting, but you have no idea what it looks like.

Honestly, that's a good thing. You don't want to read my rough drafts. They're a lot of vague shapes, mostly blocks of colors, and very flat.

I probably will never be a clean writer, with smooth transitions between draft. Fortunately, by the time other people see things, all those brushstrokes look like they're meant to be there.

One simple, good day where all is new again.

2012-01-01T15:10:00.000-08:00

They say in Japan that how you spend the first day of the new year sets the tone for the entire year, and if that is true then I shall spend it relaxed, content to be where I am, and occasionally delighted. At the very least amused at my obliviousness that causes me to get off at the wrong station, and then trust that I've got time and another train is coming and I needed to dispose of my coffee cup, anyway.

I'll be up before the alarm goes off, and somewhat overdressed, and spilling out into the neighborhood before it's afternoon. I'll have time and be early instead of feeling like I'm running late.

It's also going to rain a lot, but I'll have an umbrella or it won't be more than a few drops that don't amount to much of anything. It won't be as cold as it looks, and people will be in better moods for it. I'll listen to music and laugh with friends and have my expectations exceeded by allowing things to be what they will. Maybe I'll miss a phone call or two, but that's what voicemail is for.

There will be proper breakfast, even if it happens at 3:30, and I'll write and I'll blog and be well-rested enough to be optimistic about what comes tomorrow. To believe there will be enough time in the day to fit it all in without straining.

And maybe I'll lose that clear-headed certainty that it'll all work out eventually or forget to look for what's open when everything appears to be closed. But I had it today, which means I can find it again. Right now that's really all that matters.

2011-12-31T14:34:00.000-08:00

I told a friend that maybe 2012 would be the year that I didn't push myself to keep going until I stumbled down dead from exhaustion, as I feel like I've been doing for the past two years. I felt it particularly the past few days while I admitted defeat at the hands of a cold.

It's New Year's Eve. It's my first New Year's Eve in Toronto. But I'm staying in and forgoing celebrations because I'm not well enough, and I'm starting on the whole not pushing myself to exhaustion resolution a little early. Little sad because I had plans—and I've not had Plans for years—but it's an arbitrary declaration date. (A widely accepted one.) We'll save the celebrations for the lunar new year and let 2011 tiptoe out quiet as it came in.

I went home for Christmas, and it was strange. It had only been about four and half months, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. (To be fair, it feels like I've lived and died several lives this year.) Maybe it's Toronto. Maybe EST just has more space for cramming things into it than PST does. I don't know. Maybe it's the growing and stretching and bone-breaking to heal properly that big changes bring.

I was sitting in the airport on the twenty-third, waiting to board the flight to Vancouver, when I received news that I'd officially have a job until April 1st. Which is good, because I feel like I'm starting to get a grasp on what I do while I know there's still so much more I can learn. Been around long enough to know an opportunity when it's presented, and I have a fine one here that I am very grateful for.

The way that I had dealt with the move was to call it temporary. It was less frightening if I didn't have to think of it as long-term. And that's a bad habit that I've developed over the past few years—not treating things like they're temporary, but treating things like they don't deserve the chance to be long-term. Like they're time-passing placeholders until my life starts again.

Because I did a lot of time-passing. A lot of waiting. The thing about optimism is that we forget it doesn't mean sitting on our hands waiting for good things, it means going out and finding them. We find what we seek, and I've decided that I sought stories of discontentment for long enough.

I think life started back in August, when I stumbled into Toronto with two suitcases and a countdown in my head of how long until I left. I don't know who that countdown was really for, because I like it here. I like my job. I like the people I work with, and I like that there are people to spend time with and things to do and I can get to where I need to go on my own... and if I'm staying in, I like that it's because I've chosen to stay in.

There are things I don't like, and things that aren't perfect, but that's everywhere. The good outweighs the bad. Tonight, I hover at that halfway mark between begun and completed, halfway out of the dark with the daylight growing, and it's ok that there are so many, many things to do because there's a whole new year to do them... and they can wait until tomorrow.

Tonight there is quiet, and tea, and the blissful glorious doing of nothing more than healing and regrouping. Thanks, 2011; I think it best we part here, amicably as we can, and go our separate ways.

2011-11-05T21:22:00.001-07:00

Today—well, yesterday—no, I guess today since I'm meant to go turn the clocks back at 2 am—I wrote nothing. Let me state that proudly: I wrote nothing.

I went out and met with a room full of ladies who blog, and we talked about books and there were prizes and it was welcoming and inclusive. My tribe is also found in places other than conventions held in compounds befitting a YA dystopian novel.

Then I met other friends and we kicked about the city, all east of University/King—which is not very East but always seems so far away to me—and ended up at Spadina/Bloor then at Bay/Bloor. We did not walk the entire way, but enough that my mood had improved significantly by the time we were done.

Our adventures weren't really successful, as we found the coffee place after it had closed. But sometimes the looking is more important.

Counting

2011-11-04T20:01:00.000-07:00

I was going to talk about World Fantasy Con, but I haven't finished processing it. You can go read this interview I did with Marissa Meyer about authors and cons.

I've been thinking about moments and memory. Neil Gaiman read this story at WFC called "The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury," and I can't get it out of my head. The concept was what if one person had the responsibility of keeping an entire thing alive—what if that person forgot say, Ray Bradbury, and as a result everyone forgot.

The story unnerves me, because I don't think one person should have that kind of responsibility. There's a difference between calling something back because one person remembers it, and declaring it's the responsibility of that one person to do so. Can it even be their responsibility if no one else is aware such a responsibility could exist?

Here's another scenario: What if you met someone and you forgot you met them, because you meet a lot of people and you can't be expected to hold all of those people in your head. Does the meeting cease to have happened? Because I remember, and it still means something to me. I'm not Amy Pond-ing here—others witnessed this meeting and I know at least one of them remember, too.

Although, there are times when I do feel forgotten. But I haven't given into to the notion that I don't exist yet.

This entire post may not be making any sense because it was all half-composed in my head like three hours ago, when I thought it was important and worth sharing. Now I'm not so sure, so maybe whoever was supposed to be in charge of remembering the importance of meeting people you admire has forgotten it and all of reality has been rewritten as a result.

*

Throughout October I warmed to the idea of NaNo, of documenting and metrics and public check-ins. Accountability, thought I. That's what I'm missing. Then I went to WFC and I looked around and I reconsidered the whole idea of NaNo.

I think NaNo has something to it. Something good, but it gets lost in this more prevalent idea that words written during one month are somehow more important than words written during 11 other months.

I'm tired of feeling resentful that I don't write (fiction) all day and post to Twitter how many words I've written. I'm tired of feeling like I should be entitled to write (fiction) all day and post to Twitter how many words I've written. This prickly under my skin feeling has been all week long, and it was today that I realized the cause. November is when publishing and I break up for the holidays, because publishing has more than enough writers waving their wordcounts around the internet.

*

I don't know how it's November, when I can't remember September passing. Yet, I feel like September was three lifetimes ago and this November is an alien one fallen through time and belonging to a distant year.

There are still leaves on the trees and sun slanting between the buildings downtown to paint the sidewalks. I've been walking from the office to the halfway point of my commute then climbing on the streetcar. The walking is doing wonders for me—not crushed in a streetcar with more people than seats and space, not standing at a stop waiting for a streetcar with more space than people to arrive. I walk and I listen to music and I see things. I hope the weather holds so I can keep at this.

Because I missed the walking and the mountains and the ocean nearest to me being the right side of the continent—which is actually the left side if you're looking at a map. I had all that and stars in San Diego. I missed it enough to wonder about moving back to California, even with the US in its present condition.

Still, I think about staying long-term in Toronto. Catch myself making plans—I'd like to be walking all the way home by spring—and wondering what the place will look like in six months, a year, or two.

Maybe that's how roots set. Maybe it occurs in increments, in little ideas that allow the possibility in. Other days, home feels a long far journey from here—a discovery that hasn't happened yet.

*

You know how the Doctor and Amy laugh? The mad, joyful laughter shared between friends of not believing what just happened even though you were there and it happened?

I laughed like that with a friend at WFC. Laughed and laughed at the sheer impossibility of how a situation mirrored a previous situation. Laughed like we were in on the joke this time. Laughed like it didn't matter if the whole world heard us.

Laughter. It'll save the world.

Not-writing

2011-10-23T18:33:00.000-07:00

I am who I am

made by all that came before this

sights from the side of the highway and my life in different cities I've lived.

—Tanya Davis, "Made in Canada"

I'm not-writing a book about Toronto in that way of sneaking up on the idea when it isn't looking and pinning it to the page. Maybe it's presumptuous having only been here for two months. But I like the romance of discovering a city for the purpose of capturing a sense of it, wrapping it up in ideas, and turning it into something mythic.

For the past two, nearly three months, I've been making a collection of ideas about Toronto. I thought, surely if I keep stuffing them into a jar—don't worry, it's got air holes—they have to mingle and become something. For the longest time, I could feel the ghost of it haunting my peripheral vision. If I waited, if I was still and then turned quickly enough, I'd grab hold of what it was.

I have many, many fragments of what it is not. What it was. What it won't be any longer. I think it's a fable, a strange surreal folk tale wrapped in allegory and wanting to say something about community, about seeing the world in that magic-shrouded way the young can see places.

I think it also just wants to be weird and wonderful and not shackled to reality, not forced to give way to what is in lieu of what would be cooler if it was.

It'll probably get away on me; I'm going to let it.

Here's a paragraph of what it wasn't—not quite, but close:

Someone told me once that every city you live in will always get compared to the first city you called home. It’s inevitable, because cities want to mark you as their own. They want in your head and your blood—that’s the reason why different people fall in love with different places. Cities are an endangered species—there aren’t many of the giant sprawling omnivores left. Now it’s all communities, boroughs, neighborhoods. They say it’s because there isn’t anyone strong enough to channel all of that—to hold the entirety of a metropolis inside their heart.

Thanks given

2011-10-10T20:09:00.000-07:00

It's late and I'm writing the post of thanks. It was the kind of slow-moving, unseasonably warm day that needs gratitude. Not because it was bad, but because the way you hold the telescope determines whether things are near or far. All things felt both near and far today, like the telescope pivoted because I was sharing it with someone unseen.

I'm not always certain I appreciate slow, sunny days—days without work, days with time to ponder and question—because they give me too much time to think. I feel like I should be doing something, even when I'm determined to practice the art of doing nothing.

Today the sun was bright and the air hot, and those curling leaves on the ground were still mostly green. But it is October, and soon enough it'll be another October gone. I don't know where the years are going; I'm starting to question how I spent the years that have passed.

Today, I was thinking about killing dreams, about letting go, and the permissions we seek to do so. I was thinking a little of how the passing of people like Jack Layton or Steve Jobs makes me question what I'm doing, and if it makes a difference. If I stopped doing it, would anyone notice? And should it matter if they did?

Also, I was thinking of gratitude, not just for the things in my life but the gratitude I express to others for the things they do for me.

I don't think I've ever been the type of person who finds it easy to ask for help. Some times the little gestures mean so much because they're an expression of kindness that hasn't been asked for. And I don't think courtesy is an empty gesture. We choose to be polite, even if we were simply raised to believe it's the right way to behave.

It's not easy for me to ask for help, because I want to prove that I can do it on my own. Even when I can't, I still want to try first. So today, I'm feeling grateful for people who offer without being asked. I'm grateful for those who reach out when I'm feeling too tired to initiate contact. For those who gently guide the conversation when I'm not feeling comfortable enough to direct it.

Mostly, I'm grateful for the time to be still enough to recognize and acknowledge those moments of kindness are what save the world. Because it's the good days, and the clarity they bring, that we have to hang on to. When our stomachs and glasses are full, and there's a sense of celebration, and we feel like what we've done—even those smallest of gestures—matters.

2 months

2011-10-09T14:00:00.000-07:00

I feel like I'm dating this city, and the first month was us feeling our way around each other. The let's get to know you, and maybe we both tried a little too hard to be impressive. For this second month, Toronto was incredibly thoughtful and gave me and 1000 of my demigod friends a Rick Riordan signing.

Of course, now I worry that it's on me to provide the awesome for our third month anniversary. It's not exactly easy to top meeting one of your writing heroes. On that note, never meet Neil Gaiman in person unless you want all other meetings of your writing heroes to pale in comparison. I'm kidding. He's awesome—and so is Rick Riordan.

Not so sure it's awesome, but definitely an interesting thing to note... I learned at the Rick Riordan event that apparently there are those who refer to me by title alone. As in "Oh, you know, Indigo Teen Blog." Like I'm the Doctor and my name is a great and terrible secret that will cause silence to fall. Ok, not really. Apparently, "Indigo Teen Blog" is just easier to pronounce. (Which I'm sure is also the Doctor's reason for going by the Doctor.)

It's good that Toronto and I had such a nice evening on Thursday, because this weekend the internet gave me this:

It's small, so you can click it if you need to. But according to the Chapters Indigo website, The Wild Hunt is now sold out. As in no longer available to purchase new from Canada's largest book retailer. The book is also no longer available through Canada's largest independent store.

Behold my hipster street cred: I am officially an obscure author! You can now tell your friends you enjoyed reading The Wild Hunt with the smug satisfaction that they can't just go out and buy their own copy.

To make them doubly envious of your refined totally-not-mainstream tastes in Korean comic tie-in novels written in English, I'll sign your copy. Better yet: I'll personalize it with a great message about some secret fun adventure we had. Or at least compliment you on your excellent taste in plaid.

You probably think I'm joking. I'm not. I personalize every copy of The Wild Hunt I sign. (Except for that one that got left at Anticipation and is on a shelf somewhere in the home of someone whose first language is French. I read enough French to glean that said person enjoyed the story.)

Of course, being an obscure author means I'm difficult to find, so you'll have to make an effort to get your book signed. I recommend trying World Fantasy 2011. I hear a rumor that I may be there, but then again, it may just be Indigo Teen Blog who's going.

When I am a proper grown-up...

2011-10-08T18:50:00.000-07:00

One day, I will have a coffee table.

It will be in a living room, because I will have a room that is separate for sleeping and living, and it will also have a couch. But not a white couch, because it's ridiculous to have a white couch. I mean, all the dirt in the WORLD finds a white couch. Especially if it's a new white couch that belongs to your roommate and you're really worried that your dark denim jeans are going to leave a faint inky impression after you're gone.

So no white couch. But not black, either, because then it shows dog hair and I have decided I will definitely also have a dog so I can walk him down the street and be like "oh dear, my adorable dog is peeing on a bus stop bench. Isn't he adorable? I'm so embarrassed by his dog-like behaviour." His name will be Jackson. I promise not to dress him in sweaters, but I may have to give him a brightly-colored plaid neckerchief, because it'll distract people from how he's peeing on a bus stop bench instead of in a park like nature intended.

In the living room, there will be a TV and my friends will come and we will drink wine—as grown-ups do—and watch Doctor Who (because it will never go off the air, ever). I look forward to the day when I have a TV and a PVR thing and all my digital recorded media that I watch at my convenience is considered legal and morally upstanding. Currently if I want to legitimately purchase media from iTunes, the files are so damn large that trying to catch up on The Vampire Diaries causes me to use up all my internet bandwidth.

It's ok, because in this future lovely time I'll either not be in Toronto or Ontario will cease to have a Second World internet system because the monopoly of a certain cable company that starts with an R will have been crushed well and proper. The future, it's glorious.

Right. Friends. Actual TV. Couch that isn't white. No one trying to get Jackson the Dog drunk on wine.

And at some point, one of my dear friends will look at the coffee table and see this book:

My dear friend will say "Why, Chandra, that looks like a highly sophisticated book combining your love of subways and a specific sans serif font made popular by Apple. How charming—and so perfect for your lovely coffee table."

And I shall smile and say "yes, I know."

I'm going to start with the book. The rest will come in time.

The Night Circus Party

2011-09-27T19:00:00.000-07:00

The problem with Toronto is that I keep finding things to do.

Or someone at work finds an invitation to an author party for a book she remembers that I loved and passes said invitation along and I hastily RVSP at 1:30 pm for something at 5:30 pm.

That's how I ended up at a Random House Canada party earlier this evening for Erin Morgenstern's The Night Circus. Well, ok, it was a little more complicated than that as going to the party involved find a reveur at a specified location and then being led with some other people on a mysterious adventure through closed streets and around corners and then down darkened stairs to meet Erin.

Where we were didn't matter. (Or if you're certain that it does: a bar called Trevor, and it was apparently on Wellington.) Location is secondary to the world of the Night Circus, because the circus is its own world. People came dressed all in black—ok, it's King West, they were in all in black anyway—with a touch of red and there. A pocket square. A scarf. A group gathered together and not quite sure what to expect, but eager for it.

The whole event, for me, captured the experience of reading The Night Circus. Being handed an invitation, then adventuring off to locate a fellow reveur, and then traveling together to unknown locale to meet Erin Morgenstern. It was mysterious and wonderful, a well-designed and executed experience.

Also we were served cotton candy and that is now the height of awesome to which all other book events must aspire.

The problem with "events" is that some times they fail to be events. They don't leave you with a lingering awe and the feeling of attending something you couldn't have put together on your own. I can tweet Erin. I imagine that at some point through mutual acquaintances and sheer force of will, I could've managed to meet her in person. But it wouldn't have been like this. It would've been less—and the story wouldn't have been nearly as good.

Toronto, among other things

2011-09-21T17:39:00.000-07:00

Somehow it became Autumn, a blur of weeks and weeks with little time to catch my breath and only stopping to realize I had turned thirty. I don't mean to suggest I gave no thought to turning thirty; I gave it perhaps too much thought.

You see, I—like everyone else—had an idea of what my life would look like at this age. A vow made when I had turned twenty-six and thought I had the world all worked out. It was the closest I've ever come to making a five-year-plan, and I had a hard time accepting that what I had so planned for was beyond my control. We get these numbers stuck in our heads, these self-imposed deadlines created with no understanding of the process or the factors that have to align it make them happen. Maybe that's what it really means to grow-up, to understand shifting timelines and compromise.

All in all, September 19th was a good day to turn thirty, a day on par with turning twenty-five—filled with surprises and time spent with people of my choosing. It passed quickly for an event spread out over three days so that I could spend moments of it with different people, allowing for it become various experiences instead of just one forced to hold all of those expectations.

There's not much to say about work—or rather, there's an awful lot but it wouldn't be professional and even if it was professional, much of what I'd have to say would be dead boring to anyone who didn't do my job. The job's not boring, mind, you just won't have the context of the little frustrations and victories. Some times not pulling aside the curtain, exposing the wires and mechanism that make the trick work, is more beneficial. Let's just say, if you go to the facebook page and follow the twitter account... you see maybe 30% of what actually occurs day to day. The other 70% involves me helping to move the mirrors around. (While trying not to drop them, for they are numerous and heavier than you think.)

As for everything else... At a point, all of what you have to say, all of what you could talk about, becomes so much and so lengthy that you say nothing at all. I think what I do for 40 hours a week, how public that 30% of it is, has made me hold on to things that are personal and keep them private. I'd rather share them where they don't gain the permanence of becoming how I appear to feel whenever someone reads a blog entry. Time is strange on the internet; I don't feel constantly the way I'd be prone to express feeling if I blogged every day.

Also, the time it would take to blog every day is better spent drafting or out in the city or sleeping.

I miss the mountains, which may seem a strange thing to miss but they're the place-thing so immediately and undeniably not here. I don't love Toronto. Occasionally, I'm fortunate enough to spend an afternoon with a friend who does love it and the feeling's contagious.

That said, I haven't ruled out the possibility of loving Toronto. It's a slow romance, and not the immediate infatuation I felt for the other places I've lived. And I wonder if everyone who moves somewhere for a job, and not for the love of the place they're moving, feels this. Is it circumstance or city that gets in the way?

Some days I catch myself counting down until my contract ends, not with relief, but like it's a vacation and ticking away is that reminder that my time in Toronto is limited and it's best to do all I can while I'm still here to do it. Other days, I think I could stay; I think I could call this place home. I think that I could want to.

So that's why I don't blog much, because these are the kind of thoughts that come across as melancholic and make people worry—and it's not my intention to make people worry. Just to express that not-loving a place is valid and different from hating it. It's hard to go anywhere from something as definite as hate. Uncertainty has options.

I'll leave you with three images. One is text: In my search for familiarity, the subway in Toronto becomes the one in Kyoto—the Bloor backbone of this city momentarily somewhere else; the above inconsequential because of misremembered similarities of below.

A stone guardian sits atop the High Park Garage.

The Distillery district, whose bricks helped inspired what I'm drafting.

Happy [Pon Pon Pon] News

2011-07-21T17:17:00.000-07:00

Dude, I am having a good day. Like a really good day.

First of all: I got to blog about The Amazing Spider-Man trailer for work. Yeah, that was my job. It's right up there with when I got to blog about Neil Gaiman's Doctor Who episode.

And speaking of jobs... if you've spoken to me in the past couple weeks I've been extra-neurotic because I applied in early July for a social media internship position with Indigo Books & Music.

This afternoon I was offered the 6 month contract. Which means I'll be working in Head Office for six months as a corporate webslinger. Or something. I'm going to say corporate webslinger because it fits the ongoing Spider-Man metaphor and I'm totally all about extending metaphors. (In fact, nothing would please me more than if I had business cards that said "Chandra Rooney, Corporate Webslinger." I may have to just settle for putting it in my twitter profile.)

Anyway, I have to move to Toronto in two weeks.

Which is kind of terrifying—although I promise it's the best kind of terrifying, but it's still terrifying nonetheless and I'm not going to bs about it and pretend that it isn't. But there are some pretty cool people in Toronto already and now there will be 3 more amazing people joining them, as two of my coworkers are starting university/college in the fall on Toronto campuses.

And in celebration... here is the scariest Japanese music video ever for your viewing pleasure:

Take that tongue out of your cheek...

2011-06-24T12:15:00.000-07:00

Take that tongue out of your cheek until you learn how to keep from tripping over your own snark.

I had this whole plan to write a funny and thoughtful post about a not-so-funny-but-really-wanted-to-be article on Slate yesterday, but most of my points are in Malinda Lo's response. (I'm all out of sorts this week and have retreated to arguing with a plot outline in order to have something half-finished on my harddrive be all-finished so I can begin something else with a clear conscience.)

Timing. That's what I'm going to add. Timing. It means know when it's appropriate to make a joke and when it's just going to be hurtful. It means knowing your audience, and anyone with Twitter could tell you that it's still too soon to make jokes about how frivolous the YA genre is.

If we're being honest, someone is always going to find it too soon to joke about any genre being frivolous. No one likes being told what they do doesn't matter. It's hurtful and rude and it's not going to win you readers or friends. Well, ok, maybe it will but they aren't the type of people I want to be friends with.

There is great power in comedy. I remarked to a group of high school students that when the world looks at you and thinks you're irrelevant and dismissive, you'd be amazed what it allows you to say in return. The look of shock on someone's face when you prove that you have some thoughtful observations about the world is very satisfying.

But as Stan Lee taught us: With great power, comes great responsibility. I guess not everyone can be Spider-Man. Not everyone should even aspire to be Spider-Man. But at least learn how to time your jokes.

Also, Diana Wynne Jones was frequently told that her books were too complicated by adults and she wrote middle grade. This helped me develop my hypothesis that we get dumber as we get older and let's just say the internet often proves me right. (Except when I'm wrong and then it's more than happy to tell me so.)

You can use humor to be snarky and mean and put others down in order to make yourself seem oh-so-clever. Or you can use humor to make a point that raises others up. If you're really good, you can get away with doing both. (That article was not.)

That is, of course, my opinion based on my efforts to try and make a world that is less mean and more wonderful. Cuz like Spider-Man, I just keep suiting up despite the jerks who get paid to talk crap about what I love to do.

Upon the release of the 10th Anniversary Edition of American Gods

2011-06-21T11:15:00.000-07:00

Dear Neil,

Your American Gods is ten years old this month. Aside from how that possibly makes both of us feel significantly older than we usually feel on a day to day basis, I would be doing you a disservice by neglecting to acknowledge this milestone.

American Gods isn't my favorite book. However, it's undoubtedly, for me, the most important of your books. It's the book I read four times, always hoping that each would be the read where the story unfolded and revealed its secrets and became the masterwork that others claimed it was. I always felt like it was just this close to clicking with me, but something kept getting in the way.

Ten years later, I still hope that when I read the 10th Anniversary Edition it will be the time that everything falls into place.

Maybe it will, as I realized that this book and I did click. We clicked that first time I read my brand new hardcover—the first adult hardcover novel I'd bought on the basis that the author wouldn't disappoint me—ten years ago.

Because I couldn't written any story I've written since without having read this one of yours; it was American Gods that taught me we carry our gods around with us and we bump elbows with other people's gods as we pass them on the sidewalk.

It was American Gods that taught me what we focus on gives it power, and that we should choose what we give power over us with a little more care than we often do.

It was American Gods that taught me the world is a strange, funny, beautiful, wonderful, horrifying place; that we often get tangled up in battles that we don't think are ours, and that we can run and hide but eventually the world will find us.

And I thank you, as those are all important things to know. I don't know that they're what you intended to say, but I hope that's at least part of it. I'm happy to keep rereading until I find the rest.

Congratulations upon the release of your 10th Anniversary Edition. May the next ten years bring you even more stories.

Sincerely,
Chandra

Being a Straight Ally

2011-04-05T10:00:00.000-07:00

This post is part of GayYa.org's Gay in YA blogathon.

If you had asked teen me to name LGBTQ characters and canon pairings in YA lit, most of them would’ve come from Asian comics. The novels I remember reading as a teen—LJ Smith, Christopher Pike, RL Stine—were all hetro couples; manga was where to find the variety.

It was probably Cardcaptor Sakura that I most connected with; CLAMP had written a story reflecting the relationships already existing in the world around me: Boys liked boys; girls liked girls; some characters liked both. (One of my best guy friends came out to me on my seventeenth birthday—try topping that present—and I had a bisexual classmate.)

This was over ten years ago. While gay characters are hardly common in contemporary YA, at least they have more of a presence than they did. Bisexuality, however, still tends to be accepted even less than being gay. Usually if someone says they’re bi, it’s concluded that they’re “confused.” But if you talk to people in the LGBTQ community, you’ll learn that a bisexual is someone who loves individuals regardless of their gender.

A couple years ago I wrote a tie-in novel for TOKYOPOP based on a Korean comic series. The plot isn’t really important, but there was a romance conflict that involved a young woman being engaged to a guy who it’s suggested may have cheated on her with another man.

I raised the issue to my editor that we should perhaps give some indication that the dude was bisexual, because why would a sane woman worry about her heterosexual fiancé fooling around with another guy? My editor agreed.

Except the problem was that we weren’t allowed to explicitly state the character was bisexual. By the rules of the shonen ai genre, this character had to be seduced by an older ‘experienced’ male. We couldn’t imply that the character being seduced was also experienced.

It bothered me, because it left a logic flaw in the character behavior. But it bothered me more because it might support an underlying implication that people can be “turned gay” or that the seduction had “confused” this character.

I don’t believe people turn gay; I don’t believe people who are bisexual are confused. I certainly don’t want to propagate either misconception to readers.

So we found another way. We were subtle instead of loud. We never explicitly state the character is bisexual, but I think there’s enough there that a reader can guess. While I would’ve preferred to state that the character had had previous same-sex relationships, being a professional writer is about compromising—and choosing which battles you want to fight.

The challenging part of being a straight ally to the LGBTQ community is similar to the challenge of writing ethnic minorities: Some times we who are not worry that we’ll offend those who are by getting something “wrong.”

I’ve been outlining a new project—and getting nowhere with it until I realized that the main character is gay. Is there a huge commercial demand for stories where boys fall in love and pilot battle robots? Maybe not; it could just be one more factor that makes this difficult to sell. But I’m not going to worry about that before I’ve even written a first draft.

Authors have to be true to their characters regardless of gender, race or sexuality; the story will tell you what it needs. Whether it sells or not, wouldn’t you rather spend the time writing something you believe in?

So you want to write a review blog

2011-03-05T21:32:00.000-08:00

Fantastic. First thing you should know about a review blog is that the purpose of a review is to help sell books.

Publishers don't give out advance reader copies because they're impressed by your eagerness to read. If you are given an ARC and you proceed to write a review where you imply that the book is a colossal failure that shouldn't be read by anyone, it's a bit like spitting in your host's food during a dinner party. Your poor behavior is unlikely to get you at the top of the list of people who will be invited back.

You don't have to like every ARC you receive, but you should understand that publishers hand them out to help create buzz and positive publicity so that the actual book has a better chance of selling enough to pay out the expense that has gone into its production.

Review blogs are becoming increasingly bigger players in marketing plans. Thus, the sooner you make peace with being a part of that process, the better off you're going to be.

The value of a review to a publisher is that the review inspires as many people who are going to like the book as possible to read it. Those people are then going to say positive things about the book, which increases the chance of selling additional copies.

The value of a review to a reader is that after reading the review, she knows whether or not she's one of people who are going to like the book. Review blogs that unconditionally praise books are as useless as review blogs that criticize for the sake of criticizing.

If you want to be a successful book reviewer, it's not enough to love everything you read. You have to understand why books work for you or why they don't—and you have to be able to communicate that in a way that helps other readers make a decision about whether or not a book is right for them.

Badmouthing a book, even one you purchased, has repercussions. It's unlikely a publisher or an author is going to sue you for slander, but you aren't telling a friend that you think the author is a no talent hack. You're putting it in writing and placing it in the public domain. With the internet, something you wrote will always be happening now for the people who read it. Doesn't matter if you wrote it five years ago after a fight with your friend and you were taking it out on that character who reminded you of her.

Furthermore, the purpose of a review isn't to discuss how you would have written a novel differently; you didn't write the novel you're reviewing. If you're using reviews to only point out how authors are writing things wrong (in your 'expert' opinion,) you may be better off to put that time and energy into your own writing.

The only one with the right to determine what should happen in a story is the author (with guidance from her editorial team.) This doesn't mean you can't be dissatisfied with the author's work, only that you need to recognize you are the source of the dissatisfaction. To quote Neil Gaiman: "George R R Martin is not your bitch."

There is a long discussion I'm omitting here about the process and the investement that goes into the actual production of every book on the shelf. It's an ordeal that you can't fully appreciate unless you've been through it or know someone who has, because that experience changes the way you view publishing.

When you crap on a book—consciously or subconsciously—it doesn't make you look like you're smarter or more talented or better than the author. It makes you look like a jerk.

Now, you might not be a jerk. You might just be someone who doesn't think about how what she writes can affect those who read it. You might have forgotten that each name on a book represents a person. So a reminder: Each name on a book represents a person, and most of those people know other people who are published. Authors talk to one another.

This is not meant to threaten or stifle you. There is no secret society who put your name on the list of People Who Will Never Get Published. There isn't even a list. But if you get a reputation of being a jerk, it's possible people aren't going to want to do you any favors. That's not out of malice; it's because people feel less motivated to help jerks.

Also, try not to assume you know what an author personally believes. You can only speculate on what the text is telling you. An author is not her text; a text is not its author. A review can only express your opinion, and your opinion is only one of millions of opinions.

Here's the secret—the great contradiction at the heart of marketing—not every book is going to be for every reader. We are all individuals with individual preferences and preconceptions. That's what makes books like Harry Potter so magical, because the same book connects with an astounding number of different people.

Remember, your dislike for a book doesn't render it incapable of being enjoyed by anyone else. If you can't think of anyone who would want to read the book... don't review it. There are so many review blogs out there that someone else probably did like it. Let her spend the time blogging about it. Go read something you will love. Overcome any need you have to finish reading novels you aren't enjoying. There are too many good ones out there—no matter what your personal good is—to read ones that disappoint or bore or aggravate you.

I realize this is a lot more than you were expecting. I certainly didn't consider all of these factors when I wrote my first review, and I know that I felt the same flutter of panic over the suggestion that my opinion about a published novel could affect the possibility of me getting help later. If you are genuine and thoughtful and you express your opinions with an open disclosure that you understand they are only your opinions, people will respond. You can disagree with someone without being a jerk about it.

If you take nothing else from my entry, let it be this: Be passionate—but more importantly, be kind.

Good luck.

On the matter of paths and how we spend our time walking them

2011-01-31T14:12:00.000-08:00

I haven't been reading a lot of blogs, although I've been reading more lately. For all of last week, each time I clicked on a link I read exactly what I needed to hear that day.

A few of them are writing/author blogs that have been passed around Twitter, but the one I keep coming back to isn't. It's Tiny Buddha, which is a positive general blog that posts about everything from how to be a true friend to how to discover your super powers. The post about super powers was the one I read today, and it made stop and stare at the screen.

There's a quote that begins it from the Buddha: “Happiness comes when your work and words are of benefit to yourself and others.”

That's really at the core of why I write and what I write about. I don't think I could write a book that was purely meant to scare the pants off readers or solve the question of whether a character chooses Boy A or Boy B. Stories are the way we teach the next generation what to value and what beliefs to uphold.

That's why I think young adult fiction is the most important fiction being written today, because we're writing for not just the writers of tomorrow but the leaders, healers, teachers, and innovators. We're passing on what we know to the people who will solve the problems the generations before them are creating. It's why I advocate teen literacy, it's why I advocate that people who aren't teens give teen literature a chance and remind themselves of what it felt like when the world was huge and worth fighting for.

The article from Tiny Buddha also contained this passage: "Still, what I’ve learned these past couple of years is that a joyful journey leading toward an uncertain destination is far more fulfilling than a meaningless journey headed toward something clear and specific."

I did some soul searching this past week (in between writing 12,000 words, cleaning my room, refilling my closet and baking a lot of cookies.) Talking with a friend over coffee brought to my attention that she and I are in an environment that is starting to echo a similar environment at a previous workplace. Contagious discontentment and apathy ultimately drove me from that workplace. Thankfully, it was to a company better-suited to my interests. I knew when I gave notice that I was making the right decision for me.

20 months after that move, burnt out and exhausted, I found myself needing to make another change. Now, it's not reasonable for me to seek full-time writing. Not at this point in my life, because I would be choosing unemployment over a dependable paycheque. But it's also unreasonable for me to abandon writing—not just because of how far along the path I am, but because storytelling is at the core of who I am.

I have a role now that I love, but I've been having to fit it in around my around tasks. This isn't right or reasonable. Why have I allowed something fulfilling to become my "homework"? How can what is currently a stable but smaller role grow into a larger one if I don't make the time and room for it in my life?

During the TNRD Tour, I told teens that writing is a job that no one else will take seriously if you don't treat it like one. But it's also important not to let the limitations of those around you restrict what you can achieve. Does it take more energy to be positive and continually affirm that the future will be a better place than today is? Yes, at first it does. But like every other habit, it comes with effort and practice.

2011-01-26T20:52:00.001-08:00

I thought the first blog of the new year should be something impressive.

But I've got nothing really for you to see here, because what I've got has to go into my rough draft or the Indigo Teen Blog.

I took a week out of the store to decompress and get some things done. Also, I'm getting more sleep than I've gotten since October and my room is cleaner than it's been in six months. Which doesn't mean words on the page, but I had a 4000 word day yesterday so I'm working at a more relaxed pace today.

Oh, and I came up with a really great pen name. But in case I may need to actually use it, I am not going to put it online anywhere. Just know it's awesome and it's not Emily Mochaccino, although that is also a very good fake name.

My friend, Karen Mahoney, has a novel out now. It released this week, which has me thinking a lot about the place I was in those years ago when she first wrote The Iron Witch and I first read it. Then I think that it's probably best I don't think about that unless it's to plan about how to reach a place like it again.

Mostly I feel really proud of her and hopeful for her success and grateful that we're still friends.

If you're in Logan Lake on February 5th or you know how to get to Logan Lake, you should come visit the library. I'm going to talk and since it's a return trip and some of those amazing teens might be there again, I'll have to come up with something other than Supernatural to chat about.

2010-12-06T13:01:00.000-08:00

Dear Publishing,

I think we need to go on a break. You see, I met someone else. It's this new draft. The truth is: We've been having an obsessive, passionate love affair all through November that satisfies me in ways you haven't for months.

Don't think I haven't noticed you stumbling around with other authors, coming back here smelling like their aftershave or coated in their lipgloss with your sheepish grin and I love you, baby, we just need to keep trying smile.

Haven't I always overlooked your transgressions? Forgiven you and continued to nurture the fragile hope that we could have real relationship one day? But it's the holidays and I can't take the look in our friends eyes at the Christmas party when they ask so, any news in that tone of polite obligation.

Let's give it a couple months to find ourselves and follow our bliss. I'll contemplate leaving you for good—perhaps becoming a writer for a different medium, like comics or television. But don't worry. No doubt come February you'll show up with a box of half-eaten chocolates and I'll take you back, just like I always do.

xoxo Me

Best Idea EVER

2010-11-12T13:43:00.000-08:00

Dear James Frey,

S'up, dude? You may not realize it, but you are my new word-monkey guy. I have just hired your talented & revolutionary self to write my ideas down into book-type things for me.

You might be thinking, OMGZ, why me? I'm so not worthy of your inspiration that you get from too much anime and stealing ideas from Doctor Who. It's ok, you can admit you think I steal my ideas from Doctor Who. It's reasonable to feel envious of my awesomeness. Lots of people do. It's why they're so negative when I make stuff up and try to pass it off as factual. But you know that feeling all-too-well. See? We have so much in common. I agree that aliens are both super-powered and profitable!

Anyway, less about you. More about me. I'm the important idea person in this partnership, after all. You're probably wondering why I don't just continue writing my own books. Well, I have to work two jobs, because writing isn't paying my bills. So while I'm working & running a Teen Book Club & busting my butt advocating teen reading, I'm not left with oodles of time to devote to my own writing.

That's where you come in, word-monkey extraordinaire. I read this interview you did, and I was like "WOW, that dude needs a little helping hand into this harsh publishing world." That's why I'm addressing you in this blog post: I want to help you break into publishing.

And ok, I only read the first page of that interview—was it an interview? It was an interview, right? Let's just say it was and move on. On the first page you were all "I want to change the world with the things I write," I was like "yeah! You know it."

It's really important to me that you care about what you're doing. I want you to feel happy and proud of what you produce, because your pay for ghost-writing is essentially going to be hand-written notes of appreciation from Ethanael. Unless he refuses to hand-write them, then we'll just make sure we print an eloquent form letter on nice stationary. Only the best paper stock for you, buddy!

If you're going to be all "But I'm James Frey" then I guess we can choose a pseudonym to publish under, but I'm totally going to tell everyone that I did all the hard work. You'll be credited as an unknown writer I plucked from anonymity for the opportunity to work and learn from me. There's just so much I could teach you!

If you're still on the fence, then you just need to think of how much exposure this will get. It'll be so epic for both us. Well, mostly me, but I will definitely thank you by name in my Hugo acceptance speech.

Remember, James, it's really all about collaboration and changing the world through writing whatever the fuck we want.

Have your agent call my agent to set up the meeting,
Chandra

PS I'm going to clear you a spot on the floor to keep your stuff in our office, but you can't leave anything behind because the rabbit likes to chew.

The TNRD Library Tour

2010-11-04T16:03:00.000-07:00

I should be writing words towards my goal of having 50,000 words total by the end of November, but it occurred to me that I haven't blogged—on this blog anyway—for like a month.

Hi. How are you? I didn't spell check this entry, btw.

In October, I did four author events and each one was successful in its own way and all of them had different crowds and atmospheres to the events. I'm noticing, regardless of this, I tend to say variations of the same things. And when in doubt, I quote Neil Gaiman. Not because I can't come up with my own replies, but he usually says what I mean in a way that's easier to remember when I've got 20 to 100 eyeballs on me.

The first event was a joint one with two high schools and about 50 students who didn't read or write. At least, most of them told me they didn't. There was also a pair of them asleep during my reading. You could say it was a tough crowd. But the great thing about starting like that is all other events seem to go better, because no one is sleeping during the reading. Or at least they aren't so obvious about the sleeping. I mean, someone could have been sleeping. I wasn't really paying attention because I was reading.

The second event featured all my friends from the North Shore and a stranger. We sat in a circle by these indoor streetlamps that I later declared were fixatures—which is a real word that refers to the special kind of light fixtures that mark hidden doorways—and talked about NaNoWriMo and Doctor Who and I had to defend my position on not-watching Firefly. I read the first chapter from The (damn) Magpie Book. It was at the end of the event, and the librarians were trying to make us leave so they keep flicking the lights during the reading, and when the lights came back on the streetlamps would flare. This was atmospheric and it helped to give my friend Tegan nightmares. (It's a very special honor to be on the list of people who have given Tegan nightmares with Neil Gaiman, Melissa Marr, Rachel Vincent and Big Bird.) The chapter was enjoyed by all and Sarah got to ask one of her signature Very Important Detail Questions.

The third event featured... um, I don't know how to put this politely. A lot of old people. The event was featured as part of the author speaking events for Canadian Libraries month. The week before Nalo Hopkinson had been at the library. Yeah, Canada Reads Nominee Nalo H. Then me. We go for variety in Kamloops.

Anyway, I was really glad I hadn't brought anything with profanity in it to read. Instead I read my favorite part of TALE that stands alone and that set the stage for talking about living in Japan. Also, I tried to babble my way through some questions about research and folklore. The excerpt I read was compared to Memories of A Geisha and someone told me later it also reminded them of Charles De Lint. EPIC WIN. I was a little uncomfortable at this event, not because it was old people, but because they had me sit on like a makeshift dais and a chair. I kept feeling like I should say to people "Yes, you may approach the throne. What tributes have you brought the Tribe of Judgment?"

But I didn't, because as much as Sarah would have laughed, I think I would have lost the rest of the crowd. We did, however, stay until they closed the library which implies I have a habit of closing libraries and I should probably go to a support group for my loitering problem. (We went to Tim Hortons afterward and loitered some more.)

The last event was nestled in a cozy reading room of a library with a class of grade eight students, who came with questions and I finally got asked where I get my ideas from. (I don't think it counted when Sarah asked and I was like "Uh, I steal them from Doctor Who.") Then they asked who my biggest writing inspiration was and almost said "Neil Himself" until I remembered I wasn't on twitter and I should use his real name.

Some other stuff happened, and I was pretty much exhausted by Halloween. I didn't write a whole lot. Thus the goal to reach 50,000 words by the end of November. (I have 15,XXX right now.)

The Big (Sorta) Reveal

2010-10-04T16:54:00.000-07:00

Ok, so it hasn't been officially promoted but there was a tweet from the TeenReadAwards twitter account, so I take that as the cat being out of the proverbial bag.

Back in August, I was offered a position to author a teen category blog for the company that I work for. I was already writing articles while I was down in Los Angeles a couple weeks ago, and on Sunday the blog soft launched when the new corporate site was unveiled.

Now we're still sort of in beta mode, so there are some tweaks coming before we do an official launch... but you can access all of the category blogs here, and get to the Indigo Teen Blog here. There's also a twitter account: @IndigoTeenBlog.

I'm thrilled at the opportunity to help Canada's store for booklovers and the online young adult reading community work together. Our first interview was with the Smart Chicks in Pasadena, and it was an amazing experience. Great things happen when enthusiastic people who love what they're doing get together, and there is fantastic content on all of the category blogs. If you have a chance, I'd love it if you'd come visit and leave us some comments.

Fall brings the flood

2010-09-30T14:04:00.000-07:00

It's looking like a good thing I had that vacation in September, because October is busy.

First of all, the secret project I've been involved in since mid-August launches this weekend. Some people already know what it is, but there will finally be an URL to share. I think once it goes public it'll feel a lot more... well, real. So more on that next week when I can do a dedicated post.

The Tarot Cafe library tour for the TNRD has five stops. We're still waiting on a date for Logan Lake; Lytton, Barrier, and the two locations in Kamloops have been confirmed. Lytton will be my first school visit, which is terribly exciting.

Our times in Kamloops:

North Kamloops Library
Oct 20 2010
7 pm

Downtown Library
Oct 26 2010
7 pm

I am seriously considering going as a zombie for Halloween, because I may be shambling and muttering braaaaaaaaaaains by the end of October.

2010-09-13T09:49:00.000-07:00

Well, the new job ticks along in the background but there's not yet an URL for it—and I'm thinking I'm probably not supposed to talk about it until I can go "LOOK. SHINY. WORDS."

I'll soon be heading off for the airport to embark on my vacation/clean out storage in Los Angeles. Will return in a couple weeks.

Last night, I was trying to remember when I last met a friend that I'm supposed to see when I was there. I was certain it was last year. No. It was February, because this is the year that is three years long. Oh yeah 'nothing happened' this year. What a delusion. I'm amazed I haven't passed out from exhaustion over the sheer amount of STUFF that has happened.

I guess that's how it goes when you're focused on one goal that hasn't been accomplished yet, you fail to see all the other ones that have.

The dreaded Crow Masters have not yet released me, but I escaped and wrote about 3000 words for the Dream Eaters, which means my September goal of having 3 strong chapters and an outline for that project is likely to be achieved.

September Goals

2010-09-02T13:28:00.000-07:00

I'm counting down until I'm on vacation in Los Angeles, and stubbornly ignoring the steady creeping closer to my birthday. Started a new job a couple weeks ago, and I should be able to talk about it soon. Definitely in another couple weeks.

It's now September, which means it's time to set the Monthly Goals.

• 1/2 through the existing material I had for EIGHT FOR WISHING. So another 30,000 words to re-hash and then it will be new material.
It feels right. Finally. Like it fits with the book that came before it and it's telling stories that are relevant to one another instead of ones that don't want to play nicely together.

Goal: Writing fresh words beyond where the re-hashing ends by the end of September.

• 2800 words in battle mech book 1. It is not the Victorian Boarding School one anymore—that's book two. Realized this is a trilogy and will be working on outlining the 3 book arcs this month. The trilogy and all three books need titles. Or at least something better than "book one" for the file name.
I still think it's a bigger idea than I am a writer, but I'm not getting any better by not writing it.

Goal: first book outlined by end of September.

• 800 words into THE LOST ART OF CONSUMING DREAMS. So far the greatest stumbling block has been what colored shoes a well-dressed monster pairs with a gray pinstripped suit. (The answer settled on was: Shiny black.)
It wants to be written, and I am eager to see what shape it takes.
Goal: 3 strong chapters and an outline to show M by end of September. Hopefully she can tell me if it's YA or not.

Books to be delighted by this month:

1) Plain Kate by Erin Bow: Scholastic Canada is pushing this one, and 60 pages in I am wholeheartedly agreeing with their decision. Wondrous Eastern European medieval setting. Lyrical prose. A girl who's good with a carving knife. An albino witch. Gypsys and a talking cat.

2) The paperback for Enchanted Glass.

3) Dexter is Delicious. Yes, he is. (You aren't reading the Dexter novels? Really? Well, you'd better start or we can't be friends anymore.)

There are others: Paranormalcy, Halo, Firelight... but I'm on the fence about them.

Paranormalcy sounds interesting because it's funny. Firelight because it's dragons. Halo... well, it's pure cover love. That's all. But it's a book about angels with a really pretty cover and I have yet to be thrilled by any book about angels with a pretty cover in the Teen section.

Loving a book to death

2010-08-26T10:35:00.000-07:00

Internet, we have a problem: I am sick to death of a book that came out on Tuesday. A book I won't even get a chance to read until next week. If I even read it, because after another two days of this I'm going to start developing hives whenever I see the book.

I understand that Twitter and Facebook have made our sharing of what we're doing instantaneous, but there several problems with the way a lot of people are behaving this week. I'm not talking about revealing plot details in a public space. It should go without saying that's a crime against your fellow readers.

With social media, a lot of people want to make reading a social activity. Reading isn't a social activity. It's something that happens before you can participate in the social activity of discussion.

You can't have a discussion about a text with someone who hasn't read it. You can tell them about the text and they can comment on what you've told them, but that's just a secondary reaction. Any opinion they express is based on your bias.

When thousands of people join in to talk at other people about a text, it's nothing short of propaganda. These past two days the collective tweetbrain has been bludgeoned into feeling guilty if they aren't reading a certain novel. It would be different if this novel was part of new 1t1b campaign. It's not. It's mob-mentality loving a book to death.

I'm open about the fact that I've read the two previous novels in this trilogy and thought they were a bit flawed. I also feel any relevant discussion they offer—and they do offer a lot of socially relevant discussion—is usually overshadowed by shipping arguments of one pairing versus another.

To paraphrase a friend: This is why we can't have nice things, Fandom.

My frustration isn't over the popularity of the novels. I want you to read. I want you to love books. I don't care if they happen to be books that I don't feel the same way about. We're different people. We're allowed to love different things.

No, I'm annoyed because reading is a personal relationship—an intimate connection between a text and a single reader. It's a sacred bond that authors and their publishers work for years to create.

When a person tweets/statuses their emotional reaction to a book with specific page numbers, they ruin everyone else's ability to approach that text with no preconceptions. It's a spoiler to know that on page XXX someone's heart was breaking for this character, because now I know that around page XXX something sad is going to happen.

Maybe that person thinks she's creating anticipation, but she's only creating expectation. She's influencing the emotional response other people will have. Would you like someone to tell you how you're supposed to feel about your personal relationships?

Part of why I don't LOVE these novels is because other people created such immense expectations for them. I was told for so long that these were the GREATEST BOOKS EVER WRITTEN, so when I finally read them I was rather disappointed. Then I was made to feel guilty for believing them to only be decent, thought-provoking novels that are worth the time it takes to read them. That's not a criticism; just like it's not a criticism to say I don't enjoy them as much as another series. It's an opinion.

We all have opinions, and we all have the right to share them. But there's a huge difference between a single "OMG, YOU GUYS THIS BOOK IS SO AWESOME" while you're reading—with a follow-up confirming that the book was indeed AWESOME all the way to the end—and a constant parade of your emotional reactions with page notations.

The first behavior is respectful to your fellow readers. It suggests it was more important to finish reading the book than tweet about it. That's the kind of book I want: One that I can't put down long enough to reach for my phone.

The second behavior is exhibitionist. It's not about the book at all. It's about you.

I realize that Twitter is turning us all into narcissists, but could we at least try to put up a fight for what remains of civility and consideration of others? Honestly, isn't that part of what our beloved trilogy is about?

This book is cursed

2010-08-18T18:01:00.000-07:00

It's a humbling feeling at 67,000 words into a draft to realize you've approached the telling of the story all wrong.

Not the story itself or the question of who the story belongs to. No, it's the background details and the overall focus; what moments you share and which characters share them.

About 40,000 words previous, I had a feeling the story wasn't working and that its issues were rooted in its beginning chapters. The problem with issues that early is that they twist and redirect the entire story in little ways, until it's not growing because those problems are like nasty weeds stealing all the sunlight.

Doing what I have to do—what the story needs me to do be happy with the telling of it—means I rewrite 67,000 words. I don't have to throw them out. A great deal of the plot can remain relevant, but the pacing and the time and the people involved has to shift.

I have to rework a romantic subplot, re-plot a secondary character's involvement, plot a new secondary character's role, and try to refocus the story. Was hoping to spend my upcoming vacation reading, but it looks like I'll still be drafting.

Voices

2010-08-11T20:56:00.000-07:00

I've been struggling with character voice in the narration of The Magpie Book's draft. I should be expecting it, as I struggled with the previous book to get the distant male narrator to show us his dazzling personality.

I know it's the draft, and there are so many other things to be worrying about than the main protagonist feeling shy. It's a pet peeve I have in writing—I dock marks for poorly constructed worlds or narrative voice that could be anyone. If I won't let others get away with it, I can't very well give myself a pass.

That's why the draft is dragging. Not the plot requiring more words than I intended or a growing desire to be finished and moved on to something else. The draft drags because the main protagonist drags his feet. He mumbles. He delivers things in an almost monotone instead of a monologue. Yes, it's third person, but it doesn't matter. He should still be in the words because it's his story. He's hiding. And that's frustrating.

It's an issue to address in the redraft, but that doesn't decrease the annoyance of being so aware that it is an issue. At this point, I should know what he sounds like.

The idea slated to start drafting after I complete The Magpie Book is forming. Shifting. Changing. Settling. It'll do all that again in the draft, but at least it's not such a vague, ethereal being anymore. I also think I may have had a crack in the nut that is the stalled project that got shelved late last year. It may, after a little more simmering time, be ready to speak to Agent M about again.

What about you? How goes everyone else's writing? On sabbatical for August or are you slaving away at the keyboard no matter what the temperature?

Teen Read Awards Reader's Choices Announced!

2010-07-29T18:10:00.000-07:00

It took a few days to add up all the votes, but the 5th book has been locked into each of the ten categories. So, your choices for the first annual Teen Read Awards with the reader choice in indigo:

BEST READ
Shiver
Catching Fire
The Reckoning
Shadowland
Along for the Ride

BEST ALL TIME FAVE
The Book Thief
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
The Catcher in the Rye
Twilight
The Hunger Games

BEST SERIES
Vampire Academy
House of Night
Blue Bloods
Pretty Little Liars
The Mortal Instruments

BEST BOOK TO FLICK
Push
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
New Moon
Whip It
Chronicles of Narnia

BEST NEW WRITER
Wish
Fallen
Before I Fall
Beautiful Creatures
Hush Hush

BEST HERO
White Cat
Leviathan
The Maze Runner
Heist Society
Percy Jackson & The Olympians

BEST VILLAIN
The Necromancer
The Carrie Diaries
The Prophecy of the Sisters
Stolen
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallow

BEST HOTTIE
Hush Hush
City of Glass
Along for the Ride
The Vampire Diaries: The Return
Vampire Academy 5: Spirit Bound

BEST LIP LOCK
Sea Change
Will Grayson, Will Grayson
Captivate
The Daughters
Breaking Dawn

BEST CANADIAN READ
Word Nerd
The Uninvited
For the Win
Darklight
The Reckoning

Thank you to everyone who voted for Beautiful Creatures as Best All Time Fav and Wicked Lovely for Best Lip Lock. I think you're right, even if our choice didn't make it to the final five.

Go vote for Kami Garcia & Margaret Stohl for Best New Writer(s). Win awesome prizes and if you're on twitter, make sure you follow @TeenReadAwards for extra giveaways like phone calls from authors!

Next blog entry will be when they announce what the Grand Prize is...

2010-07-26T12:08:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday morning, my step-grandfather passed away. We were expecting it. Had been half-expecting it since late February.

The funeral, burial, wake was this past weekend. It involved about 19 hours in car travel—including a return to somewhere I didn't want to have ever see again, despite that I sometimes dream about it. But the place I dream about doesn't exist any more; it's been swallowed by trees and time and spat out as something unrecognizable.

It's not my home; it hasn't been my home for a long time.

I have not written in three days.

I don't have any intention of blogging this week, except to announce who the Your Picks are for the Teen Read Awards.

That's pretty much it.

I Write Like?

2010-07-19T16:04:00.000-07:00

So anyone who's been following me on Twitter knows I've spent the past few days fascinated with this website called I Write Like. It analyzes the writing you input into the field by word choice and style to best match it to an existing "famous" author.

Now I have tried everything. A paragraph. A scene. A chapter. But it wasn't until today that someone with a much more logical mind than I suggested I put an entire manuscript into the field. (Mostly because I assumed anything over 5000 words would crash the site.)

Here are the results of the analysis of the entire manuscripts (supposedly). I'll put them in order of 'completion.'

FRAGMENTS: Cory Doctorow.
SHARDS: H.P. Lovecraft.
TALE: William Gibson.
The Magpie Book (in progress): Cory Doctorow.

Now, is there anything to this? That's the real question. Because I've put in blog entries and gotten James Joyce even when I parodying Pride & Prejudice's opening line.

I can't say anyone has commented that TALE reminds them of William Gibson, because most of the people who've read TALE for me haven't read Gibson. It's also interesting that a mythic realism story is coming up as being in the style of one of the originators of cyberpunk. My guess is that the Japanese terms are being given more weight than they should be.

It's also intriguing that FRAGMENTS and SHARDS—which are two consecutive manuscripts in a series—generate such a drastically different result. Although they were purposely focused on being different kinds of stories. SHARDS is more of a horror story, whereas FRAGMENTS is more quest-focused.

But there might, just maybe, be something to the analysis that I Write Like conducts. When my agent first read FRAGMENTS, she told me afterward that it reminded her of Cory Doctorow's Little Brother. (Because of the Gamer element.)

Then again, anything like this should be taken with a grain of salt because I could get I Write Like to tell me anyone from Stephenie Meyer (Chapter 10) and Dan Brown (Chapter 26) to Neil Gaiman (Chapter 28) and Rudyard Kipling (Chapter 16) for parts of TALE.

Beautiful Darkness by Kami Garica & Margaret Stohl

2010-07-04T13:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you wonder with a follow-up book if it can be as good as the first taste of that world. Especially when that first taste was Beautiful Creatures, which is quite honestly my favorite novel in the teen section. It is the most wonderful book, because it is full of wonder.

On one hand, I’m going to be inclined to feel biased about Beautiful Darkness. (Not only did I love Beautiful Creatures, I'm also very fond of its authors Kami Garcia & Margaret Stohl.) On the other hand, the sequel has it so much worse because it has to follow that kind of an introduction. Rest assured, I promise you that Beautiful Darkness is every bit as good, if not better than Beautiful Creatures.

In Beautiful Creatures we lived and breathed Ethan Wate’s Gatlin, and got a glimpse of ‘Gatlin Below’—the Caster elements that lay beneath and beside the world we know. In Beautiful Darkness we see that the Caster World isn’t a metaphor or a secret society: it is a world of its own. And it is just as wondrous, rich, and real as Gatlin.

We also learn a lot more of the history, as this is the South and the past is only ever a step away from the present. Some questions are answered; some matters are resolved. A great deal more is brought into play, because it turns out Beautiful Creatures just scratched the surface of the Caster mythos.

All of this is shown to us through the eyes of Ethan Wate, whose story is never really content just being Boyfriend to a Caster Girl. (Although, being Boyfriend to a Caster Girl remains very essential to the story.)

Beautiful Creatures is very much a book of the Light, and Beautiful Darkness is a book of the Dark. These reversals play all through it, and they have staggering ramifications for the characters and their futures. If you recall how Beautiful Creatures ended, you know that Beautiful Darkness has to explore the aftermath of those events and the price that must continue to be paid.

What I love about the Caster Chronicles is how real the characters are. These are emotionally honest books—maybe the events are fantastical, but the way characters react and deal with the fallout is always grounded in reality. These remain examples of not just quality writing, but the truth of what fantasy can do: Hold up a mirror and show us ourselves at both our best and our worst.

Beautiful Darkness is a fine example of how we’re all a little bit Light and a little bit Dark, and it’s up to each of us to claim ourselves.*

*I love when E & L got that literal message in Beautiful Creatures. It was such a cool scene.

End of June

2010-07-01T10:04:00.000-07:00

Happy Canada Day!

Also Happy Release Day to Karen Kincy and her debut Other. Karen is this great young author (it's ok to call you "young," right?) who I met a few years ago on livejournal. (We bonded over fox spirits.) Having a read an older draft of Other, I'm so excited to get this book and see what the manuscript has become. So if you want to read a book with a mystery element, great characters, a cool Pacific Northwest small town setting, and lots of shape-shifting magic... this one's for you!

As for me, I've now got approximately 38,000 words written for the magpie book (that's actually what my agent calls it, although it does have a proper proposed title.) Which is the follow-up to TALE. We'll be going out in September with TALE, as I didn't want to go out during the summer. Mostly because I'd like to have the magpie book drafted when we do go on submission. (Just to make my life easier.)

At 38,000 we (the characters and I) are well and proper into the meandering middle of the book. Everyone has a span in the drafting process where the story is difficult, and mine always falls somewhere between the 25,000 to 45,000 word mark. Once I'm over that 50,000 word mark I know I can finish the draft.

Word Total goal for end of July: 60,000.

Vincent and the Doctor

2010-06-29T10:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you watch things and they're sad for all the wrong reasons. They're sad because the things that happen in them are completely unnecessary and come across as emotional ploys. You're left more angry than upset.

Other times you watch something and the emotional aspect is genuine and the reasons for the emotions are honest. The show is sad in the best possible way, and you feel like you've grown. Taken a step closer to understanding the world and people in it.

What happened to Rory in Cold Blood was the first kind of sad, but Vincent and the Doctor is the second.

Like Amy Vincent Van Gogh is my favorite painter. (That's not a unique trait, I know.) Starry Night was the first painting I ever saw (in a sixth grade art textbook) that made me feet something. Who doesn't love this crazy genius? Then add in 11, who is another kind of brilliant madman, and you get what's probably the best episode of the season.

Yes. The best. Better than angels, because there is no need for a giant crack in time and space. Tony Curran was amazing as Van Gogh and Bill Nighy played an understated but wonderful part. I am almost convinced bowties are cool. Almost.

So bravo, Richard Curtis. Bravo.

Cold Blood

2010-06-28T20:39:00.000-07:00

Hey remember in The Eleventh Hour when Rory drove that sweet mini cooper to the hospital and he did a burn out when got there? Wasn't that awesome?

Or when he fought a Space Fish Vampire with a broom? Wasn't also awesome?

You know what wasn't awesome? KILLING RORY WITH A HEAT RAY.

You know what was even less awesome than that? NEGATING HIS EXISTENCE BY FEEDING HIM TO THE GIANT CRACK IN TIME & SPACE.

When I was younger, I saw a TV adaptation of Ray Bradbury's "A Sound of Thunder." It's the short story where the guy goes back in time to hunt a T-Rex but he steps off the path and kills a butterfly. When the guy returns to the future, he doesn't exist. My entire reaction to the show was "...but if he doesn't exist, who stepped on the butterfly?" (And if that's not what happened in the episode, pretend it is so you can see where I'm going with this.)

So here's my question... if Rory doesn't exist, who saved the Doctor? Who fought Space Fish Vampires? Who noticed all the coma patients walking around? Is the solution to shoot Chris Chibnall for causing this paradox? (No.)

As for parts of this episode that didn't give me a massive headache... what I really liked was when the woman wasn't the best of humanity and the Doctor told her that she was going to raise her son to be better than her. You think, oh look at how merciful he's being after she really screwed up. Except, he isn't being merciful. He's being horrid by making her live the rest of her life with the knowledge of how badly she screwed up. And he's done it with a smile.

Canadian Teen Read Awards

2010-06-21T11:15:00.000-07:00

I'm going to break one of my rules today and blog about something happening at work*. I'm doing this because I believe 250% that what we're taking part in is something fan-freaking-tastic.

Today the Teen Read Awards (presented by Indigo) site launched**. This a teen-voted-for-awards thing for books. It it is the coolest thing I have seen Indigo/Chapters do. (And I've had the pleasure of seeing them do some really cool stuff.)

And there's daily prizes! I can't win them, but you can if you're 11–17 and a resident of Canada—excluding Quebec. Under 15 you need parental consent to vote. I heard rumors of movie passes from Cineplex and even a Kobo eReader? (I <3 mine!) Read all the rules here.

Four books in each category have been chosen, but there's a fifth spot open for your choice. You can vote once a day in each category, after you've registered. (Voting in nominations closes July 25th.) I think this page—despite my involuntarily muscle spasm at the use of the word "deets"—sums it up nicely.

So, a favor, Canadian teens. There's this book, you see, and I love it with all my heart; it's called Beautiful Creatures. Maybe you've heard of it? Well, Kami Garcia & Margaret Stohl are nominated for Best New Writer—and they have some tough competition from Lauren Oliver & Lauren Kate.

Please, if you LOVED Beautiful Creatures and you can vote, will you help Kami & Margie win? If it was up to me, I'd also give Beautiful Creatures Best Hottie, Best Lip Lock, Best All Time Fave, Best Read, and Best Hero! (Sorry, but it's City of Glass for Best Villain.) Thank you for any assistance you feel comfortable providing.

While you're at it, maybe you could nominate Melissa Marr for Radiant Shadows, Lisa Mantchev for Perchance to Dream, Jackson Pearce for Sisters Red, Kimberly Derting for The Body Finder, Catherine Fisher for Incarceron or maybe even Matthew Quick for Sorta Like a Rock Star... the list just goes on and on.

Even if you didn't like Beautiful Creatures, please participate—if you're eligible—and vote for the books you do LOVE. Tell your friends! Get on Facebook or Twitter to champion your favorites. Happy voting, Canada!

* I point you to the disclaimer about this being all my personal opinion, legal department, thank you kindly.
**Be a little patient with the site today, too, because earlier we overwhelmed it.

The Hungry Earth

2010-06-16T20:59:00.000-07:00

The pressing question on my mind is what are those rusted metal wing-weapon things that they keep in the chapel? (See above right corner.) Potential rusted metal weapons in the same room that you're keeping a hostile Lizard Girl? Sounds like a bad plan, guys.

This episode was written by Chris Chibnall. He wrote "42" from the Doctor Who series with Martha, an episode for each series of Life on Mars and Torchwood's second opener "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang" AKA When Jack Snogged Spike. (It also had a blowfish driving a sports car in it.)

• A delicious twist of not actual aliens, but just a civilization of homo reptilians who predate humanity. (Awesome, except every time someone said "homo reptilian" I giggled like a 14 year old.)

• The episode also featured a kick ass graveyard—not like the kind that Nobody Owens lives in, but still a great little one and some of our heroes ran around this graveyard in the dark and were chased by scary shadowy lizard people.

• There was also some Doctor and Rory bromance, and I suspect there are a lot of slash fanfics that explore the deeper meaning of this.

• I want those wireless glowing headphones that kid had.

• Hey, kid, you're not dyslexic. Your brain's just hard-wired for Ancient Greek.

• The Gruffalo is badass. If The Gruffalo also turns out to have some greater thematic relevance to this two-parter, I will be very impressed.

Now the stuff that leaves me wondering:

• Would the Doctor really let Ethan—I mean Elliot wander off on his own? This seems highly irresponsible considering that the Doctor had just finished wigging out over losing Amy to the ground.

• Also, the Doctor has a sling shot—which means that soon we shall see him fight zombies with a cricket bat because the no weapons thing is totally just a rule he enforces on other people.

• Future-time-line Rory & Amy seemed to be dressed...um....identical to current-time-line Rory & Amy.

The Necessity of Cages

2010-06-12T11:10:00.000-07:00

I haven't been blogging much, which is because I've been telling myself that I'm ever-so-busy. Partly true. Mostly, I've been cycling between discontentment and a vicious kind of unrelenting hope that refuses to die. The discontentment is largely based on inability to speed along events that said unrelenting hope won't allow me to abandon.

Dreams are devils, I think. If we let them, they'll master us. Aspirations run amuck if left on their own. They blind us, they steal away our time, and ultimately they take their toll on our lives and relationships.

We don't talk about this, because we're worried about being discouraging. Well, honestly, if you're so easily discouraged then you've likely never had a true aspiration. Devil-dreams don't let you go—never without a fight.

Thus, the necessity of cages. The more I write, the more I come to value outlines. They are a place to capture all those ideas that would run around and break things while I was doing paying work.

I used to believe an outline would take away the joy of discovery. It doesn't. What it takes away is the amount of clean-up I have to do in revision and the time I spend staring into space trying to answer "and then what?" during the first draft.

It's part of the wonder of ideas: Even when you put them in a cage, they can still find a way to escape. They're not such fragile things that a little structure is going to destroy them. If anything, it only makes them stronger.

Amy's Choice

2010-06-08T22:07:00.000-07:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a sci fi show, must be in want of an episode questioning its in-show reality. Few do it better than the Buffy the Vampire Slayer one, but Simon Fye wanted to at least nod to the troupe while dressing a wee funny man in various Doctor ensembles.

My favorite: the Ten blue suit and glasses during the "your brain is completely see through!" scene.

Because the mechanics of a concept like this are fairly well understood, the episode holds water. It even accomplishes some fun bits and some truly great emotional bits. The Doctor and Amy holding hands while they drive the van is brilliant.

While the episode may across as a bit of a filler, it deals with the whole unnecessary Doctor-Companion Potential More Kissy Face angle. The episode also shows why Amy makes the choice she does, and because it's Doctor Who and not Gossip Girl we can trust this issue is now resolved. (Or as resolved as anything can be for our impulsive Amy.)

I did, briefly, question if the Doctor knew what was going on from the get-go and why he allowed it to continue—or if he was all "Whoa, wait. I saw this fake Valeyard plotline in a Dr Who comic. But we didn't bring any time-sucking crustacean-bug things on board... How is Donna, btw? She was like training me to deal with Amy. OMG, old people zombies!" I'm sure when the Doctor worked it out, he allowed things to play through because he knew Amy needed to make the choice. (I could, however, be projecting Ethanael's characterization on 11. I get them confused sometimes because they're both purposely insane.)

It is always appropriate to reduce people to piles of sand, because that is an awesome visual. And bonus points for reinforcing the Hansel & Gretel knowledge that old people should not be trusted—unless they're the Doctor. Serious, tho, Old People Zombies was my favorite part.

My least favorite part was Rory's ponytail, because it was actually a mullet. Mullets are never ever cool. Ever. I am taking away the cool points Rory earned fighting space fish vampires with a broom because of the mullet-tail.

Final thoughts: Was this not an obvious casting opportunity for David Tennant with a goatee? Perhaps I am the only one who feels this way, so I'll keep holding out for that cracking all the universes to allow a 10.5 and 11 smackdown-then-team-up-Marvel-style.

Vampires of Venice

2010-06-03T20:29:00.000-07:00

Best. Episode. Yet.

Because of vampires? Because of Venice? NO. Because Rory is the best secondary companion ever. Unimpressed by the TARDIS. Quick to understand that the Doctor is dangerous because he makes people want to impress him. But most importantly: Rory fought space fish vampires with a broom!

Oh, yeah, and the Doctor jumped out of a cake at Rory's bachelor party.

I love this episode, really. Because there was some thought put into it. More than just the lush scenery and the fabulous dynamic of Doctor & Amy & Rory, there was a logical explanation for why the "vampires" didn't have reflections but why we still saw their teeth.

I love silly and fun, don't get me wrong, and I love just plain creepy, too, but you can be silly & fun & creepy and still have monster/alien mechanics that make sense.

Which is why I'm confused over the Queen Space Fish Vampire having to undress before she jumped into the water, but I'm going to say that her perception filter got jammed on and overwhelmed her brain so that she got all confused and had to undress. Or she just wanted to be really DRAMATIC.

Did I mention Rory fought a Space Fish Vampire with a broom?

We find out what happened to Dante

2010-06-01T20:26:00.000-07:00

The garbage can didn’t attack on its own. It’s not like the former city of London abandoned pastries in favor of large metal objects. That would be sensible. Very little about this Thursday has been sensible.

No, the garbage can attacked because someone used it as a projectile. Didn’t realize this until after it happened. Thus the confusion over thinking even more inanimate objects had decided to threaten my well-being. Didn’t hear it coming because no one has had the decency to stop surprising me.

Maria pulls me out of the way. I hear a warning seconds before she grabs my arm. No time to move myself. She moves me. It jangles. She doesn’t notice. Too busy staring at the garbage can like it might right itself and come after us again. Shouldn’t happen. We’re in Vancouver. The guardians keep that kind of thing to a minimum.

“Are you ok?” she asks. “It was headed right for you.”

“Yeah.” I stare at her fingers.

She lets me go. Her face turns that funny pink color again.

“I’m ok,” I say. “Thanks.”

Just being polite. Just saying what is said in these situations. But the simple expression of gratitude makes her go all shocked-face. As if she didn’t realize I could be polite. I can. I choose not to be. My parents were always polite. All it got them was dead.

“It was—yeah.” Maria swallows. “You’re welcome.”

“Luminos!”

The music in my head silences. Doesn’t stop. That’d be impossible. My attention wrenches from listening to it. Full focus. That is not a name a stranger should be yelling. Especially not at me.

She is the silence overwhelming. A vaguely familiar one that coats the inside of my head and throat. She is also wearing the most awesomely bad-good scarf ever. I think it coordinates with the hoodie Maria found me. Definitely doesn’t match.

I make the frowny face. I know this girl in the scarf with the skinny jeans and the too many bracelets and the teal tank top that almost matches her yellow shoes. Given the exuberant use of color in her wardrobe we might even be related.

“Ethanael Luminos,” the girl in the scarf says. Her eyes are that blue the sky never is here. The color of a summer afternoon. Her hair is strawberry ice cream pink.

Maria stares. At me. At the girl with the candy-colored hair.

“Present,” I say. “S’up?”

Maria doesn't giggle. I think I hoped she would.

“Ethan,” Girl in the Scarf makes a grab for me.

She’s wearing gloves. So am I. Even through them, I can feel her touch. Nostalgic. Or something. It causes what I believe humans call a ‘flashback.’ Back flashing to when my parents weren’t so dead and I wasn’t so tall and this girl and I first met.

Some kind of party. A birthnight party. Maybe. My Then Alive mother brought over a girl not much older than me, all in frills and ruffles and ribbons of various startling shades of green.

Ethan, my mother said. This is Felicity Chant.

How do you do, said Felicity and held out a hand in a little white lace glove.

I listen, mostly, said I. The music tells me what to do. Sometimes I tell it to do something else. But that doesn’t make Dad happy.

Me too, she said. Listen. I mean. And it doesn’t make my mother happy when I change things, either.

I stared, like Maria stares at me, because I’d never met anyone who could change the music. Sure, a few people could hear it. But change it? That was secret and special and just mine. Didn’t know how I felt about sharing it with someone else.

I took her hand. She was silent. Like Niall. Who was my reference for all things Over There. My little kid symbol match. Silence = Niall. But Felicity did not equal Niall. Logic fail. Smash. Very traumatizing for a little kid on his birthnight.

What’s wrong, Ethan? My mother asked.

She doesn’t have any music, I said.

I do, Felicity told me. It’s just very quiet. Like yours.

When you’re older, my mother said, you and Felicity will be married.

I thought about it. Mom and Dad were married and they seemed happy enough. But they were grown-ups and obviously this Felicity and I wouldn’t be grown-ups for a long time. Whatev. I’d worry about it then.

Ok, I guess, I said. Is she staying for cake?

Don’t you know? My mother asked.

I don’t know what he’ll do, either, Felicity said. This must be what others mean when they talk about being surprised.

I don’t like it, I said.

No, she agreed. We should promise never to surprise each other unless it’s very important.

And we did. It’s one of the few promises I’ve kept.

“Felicity.” I adjust my headphones. Straighten my hood. “Color me surprised.”

“Yes. Sorry.” She gives Maria an inspecting glance. “I had to get your attention. There’s a cluster of guardians coming this way. Your being here hasn’t gone unnoticed. You have to leave the city.”

Uh oh.

“We’re waiting for people,” Maria tells Felicity.

“Then you’ll be waiting a long time. They’ve been incarcerated on the grounds of aiding the Prometheus in abandoning his duties.”

“Who is she talking about?” Maria whispers.

“Avalon had to take a leave of absence,” I say. “But he didn’t actually tell anyone he was going.”

“Ethan.” Felicity points at Maria. “Who is this?”

“Maria. Andy and I are finding her a place to live.”

“Trafficking in stolen humans is not going to help your cause.”

I shrug. “She was stolen when we found her.”

“She’s also standing right here,” Maria adds.

“You both need to leave Vancouver.” Felicity ignores her. “Now.”

Dante and Niall can take care of themselves. Blame me. Beg forgiveness for being mislead by a Luminos. We’re all wicked, y’know. Like a family of supervillains.

No way I am I leaving without Avalon. Your world needs him. More importantly, Oliver and Runa need him. Can’t hear Felicity, but her face says she knows I won’t go.

“Ethan.” I like the way she says my name. Kindly. All full of concern for my well-being. Already practicing for the future. “They’re in guardian custody awaiting transit to the Far Reaches. It’s the only way the Prometheus is leaving this city.”

“Unless we break Avalon out of jail,” I counter-offer.

Felicity nods.

“Let’s go,” Maria says.

Felicity and I are perfectly synced as we turn to stare at Maria.

“We can’t leave them there,” she tells us. “Not when they were arrested for such a stupid reason.”

Felicity starts to protest. “You don’t—”

“She doesn’t need to,” I say. “She’s right. You know. I know it. That potted palm tree over there knows it. Thanks for the warning, Lili, but a Luminos doesn’t leave family behind.”

“Yes. Family is the only loyalty a Luminos has.” She sighs. “We’ll use another exit. There’s no point wasting our energy fighting this lot of guardians. We’ll need all we have for the escape.”

“Cool.” I stuff my hands in the hoodie’s pockets. “Lead on.”

Felicity sighs again. It’s the same kind of sigh my mother used to give my father.

“Ethan.” Maria doesn’t grab my arm. “Who is she?”

“Felicity. She and I are going to get married,” I reply. “But not today. Today doesn’t work for me. Little bit busy.”

“It doesn’t work for me, either,” Felicity says. “And thank you very much for asking.”

“Great,” Maria says. “Now there’s two of you.”

End of May

2010-05-31T11:28:00.000-07:00

I have been temporarily coaxed back to LJ by Karen Mahoney for her three month summer writing challenge, which will require Tuesday check-ins at her LJ space.

This reminded me I should probably do a general check in here as well.

1) Life has been somewhat insane this year. Lots of background noise. Everything scattered to the winds. Things appear to be finally focusing and that's a Very Good Thing Indeed.

2) Still working at the bookstore. Still having a good time there. My managers have decided I am their go-to-girl for teen titles, which is brilliant. Also amusing because the title I'm most excited for this summer is the Stories: All New Tales anthology that Neil Gaiman co-edited. (It is not to be found in the teen section.) You can read one of the tales from the anthology here. It's by Roddy Doyle and it's terribly amusing or amusing in a terrible way. One of those.

3) FRAGMENTS is still out on submission. We have had 3 responses so far. They went: (1) I really like this—except for the stuff I don't; (2) I loved this, but my publisher didn't get as excited as I'd hoped; (3) There's nothing 'wrong' with this, but it's just not for me.

4) Earlier this year, I spent copious amounts of time and energy repositioning THE TALE OF ARIAKE as a young adult novel. It should be going out to editors soon.

5) I'm currently working on the rough draft to a companion manuscript for TALE. It's as just over 20,000 words. It is my intention, through Kaz's accountability program, to finish the draft by the end of August. I have no idea how long that draft will be, but I'm going to say 80,000 words. It's a nice enough number, and it means I only have to manage 20,000 words a month until September.

6) I'm outlining two other 'skerit projects.' That is all I will say about them because if I say anything further I won't actually bother to do the outlining.

7) Today is Thursday has returned. Sort of.

8) The rabbit has discovered he likes to chew electrical chords. I don't know if this means he's missing an element in his diet or just suicidal, but other than that he's fine and fat and glad you all asked about him.

9) There will not be NYC posts, because I'd rather spend the time writing.

Cupcakeathon!

2010-05-25T21:15:00.000-07:00

In honor of Lisa Mantchev's new releases, Perchance to Dream, there will be cupcakes! Chocolate Chunk Devil's Food cupcake with coconut butter-cream icing, to be precise.

This is what cupcakes look like when you're fairy-sized...

An army of cupcakes advances on those 'healthy' fruits. Bah, 'healthy' food will be defeated by tasty sugar bombs!

Bonus points = Rabbit in a blanket kind of looking like a cupcake.... with ears.

A Tuesday that might as well be a Thursday

2010-05-25T11:00:00.000-07:00

Today is a day of epic celebration, for today two fabulous author ladies have new releases!

Vicki Pettersson's Fifth Sign of the Zodiac Cheat the Grave is on the shelves, and this one finds a mortal Joanna Archer struggling to find her place among the supernatural side of Las Vegas. Can a mortal be the Kairos? Is there a place between the Shadows and the Light? You'll have to read Cheat the Grave to find out!

Lisa Mantchev's Second Act of the Theatre Illuminata Perchance to Dream: This darling YA follows the adventures of Beatrice "Bertie" Shakespeare Smith, her Sephiroth-look-alike Ariel, and her Fab Faerie Foursome as they leave The Theatre in search of a way to save Nate and discover who Bertie's father is.

Don't forget that it's #Cupcakeathon today in honor of Perchance to Dream! I've got to go to the store and get the mixings to make some fairy-pleasing Coconut Chocolate-Chip cupcakes.

Also, it's Towel Day—so whatever you do, don't panic. I've dug out my little Totoro hand-towel that I travel with. (There is an actual reason I have a totoro hand towel for traveling, and it involves a Christmas in Japan and the fact that there are no hand dryers in train station washrooms.)

Which begs the question, does this mean I have to make 42 cupcakes?

Time of Angels/Flesh and Stone revisited

2010-05-22T21:52:00.000-07:00

Because it wasn't actually Doctor Saturday this weekend, and because a friend was having a bad day and needed cheering, I spent tonight rewatching "Time of Angels" & "Flesh and Stone."

The second time through it does make a great deal more sense, and explains away a couple of the issues that I had with the first viewing. Mostly they're things that @antiphrastic and I have been puzzling over since "Flesh and Stone" aired last Saturday.

They shot at the angels to provide light, and the Doctor "assumed" that the angels were distracted by the giant crack in time and would react to Amy by instincts. (Which still suggests that angels don't actually know when people are looking at them, but at least acknowledges that the Doctor can't say that for certain.)

As for what he told Amy when she was seven, I think it was a reference to how when he was leaving her and told her he'd come back, she said people always said that and he informed her that he wasn't people, he was the Doctor. (Ergo, he would be coming back and she needed to trust him.)

There’s a skill to changing your clothes in a bathroom stall

2010-05-19T08:30:00.000-07:00

I bet you're thinking Ethanael, it's not that difficult. Because I know most humans think in italics. True. Also true that a lot of humans have the ability change their clothes in a bathroom stall. You may even be one of them.

But can you change you clothes while regaling an audience on the other side of the stall door with an epic of story of how you pwned Lovecraft at the "Carry On My Wayward Son" guitar solo?

No? Didn't think so.

"Um, Ethan?" Maria sounds less than regaled. "Don't you think someone's going to wonder why you're in the girl's bathroom?"

Huh. I did wonder what she was doing in the men's room. And why it was so pink. Briefly. Then I just assumed we're in that part of Vancouver. You know. The area where men enjoy pink bathrooms. Because they're gay. The men. Not the bathroom. Toilets don't have a sexual preference.

"Yes," I tell her. "But that's irrelevant to HP's inability to master the orange key. The orange key is important, Maria. You can tell if someone's more than human by their mastery of it."

You're wondering why Maria and I are in the girl's bathroom together. You thought we'd gone with Neal to find Dante and Avalon. You're also wondering why I'm now spelling it N-E-A-L when I was spelling it N-E-I-L-L before.

I'm passively-aggressively spelling his name incorrectly in various ways to minimize the possibility of him finding this before our little adventure is finished. I'd rather he couldn't prove I know what I know about Maria. He knows I know, of course, but he needs proof to act on it. Like in writing. On a blog.

Maria and I are in the bathroom because we're changing our clothes. Implied by the mention of my clothes changing skillz. Neal sent us to the mall to acquire some garments that would raise our incognito stats. All Maria needed was something a little less destruction chic. I needed to cover up. Problematic because a lack of weather generally means a lot of covering-upage is unnecessary. Even if Dante could have offered me his parka, it would have drawn the guardians' attention like a magnet.

Options for my blending in are a hoodie with the hood up or an over-sized comical hat. I wanted to get a hat. Neal told me no. So I got a hoodie. It's yellow. And pink. And teal. An inconsiderate mob of color. There's a very small but probable chance the combination will induce seizures. Not so much incognito as just neato. Got because Maria dared me to. Maybe that she'll be humiliated long before I am.

She wears jeans. In grey boots. Yellow shirt. No patterns. Good. We don't want to clash. Like cymbals. Very disruptive.

"That is one ugly hoodie, Ethan." Her face is doing that smile people do when they're secretly happy but are trying to make you think they disapprove. "It's so bad it's good again."

"I tend to have that effect," I tell her.

We're supposed to go wait for Neal outside the mall. Blend in. Be neato incognito. Or at least try to keep from being hauled out of the city by the guardians. Or thrown in a dungeon and forced to battle our way to freedom. Or whatever it is they do to unwanted visitors. I'm not really sure.

Shocking. I know. Can't say I've ever really wanted to find out. Professional curiosity only goes so far. Unlike Valor powers, I have a healthy sense of self-preservation.

Maria and I leave the bathroom. All casual like it's normal. We head for the exit. Not too fast. Just walk with a purpose. Silence mixes with song. Getting hard to tell which silence is whose. Dante. Avalon. Neal. The guardians. Too much silence. Shouldn't be so much in one place. Draws attention. The wrong kind.

A jangle of distorted Beauty catches me. Maria's got her arm threaded through mine. Three layers of fabric and the contact still stings. I must wince.

"What?" She looks at me. Really means the question. "I'm just keeping you from wandering off or walking into a bench or something. Don't go getting the wrong idea."

No such things. Ideas are ideas. People make them wrong or right.

I shrug. It's a good enough response.

"Do you think they're ok?" she asks, her voice low.

"Hope so."

"Me too."

Take a moment. Appreciate the two of us. Arm in arm. We're practically friends. Got it? Good. Because it lasted about two seconds before the garbage can attacked.

Time of Angels/Flesh and Stone

2010-05-18T17:29:00.000-07:00

I liked Time of Angels a lot more than Flesh and Stone. Not because Flesh and Stone isn't an important episode, but because I felt like it was trying to do too much too quickly.

And look at the shoes River wore in Time of Angels. They are so unbelievable, that you can forgive they are Not Era.

There was a lot great stuff in these episodes: the image of an angel is an angel alone is a philosophy paper. I have to say Amy wins this series. She just does. Not because she tried to seduce the Doctor, but because she's just made of more win than 11 & River Song put together.

I am considering changing the label for this to "Amy Pond FTW."

What I've concluded from these two episodes:

1) River Song killed the Doctor.

2) Steven Moffat has a thing about forests, monsters using dead people's voices to speak through communicators, and people turning off light sources. I will use this information to craft the 11th Doctor drinking game.

3) Next time there's a continuity error in something I write, I'm going to say to my agent "Look, a giant crack in time!" because giant cracks in time explain everything. And they eat people. Then make you forget that the person ever existed. Giant cracks in time are like what Weeping Angels want to be when they grow up.

4) For example: Giant cracks in time explain how despite that the whole basis of the Weeping Angels is that they quantum lock when you're watching them, they don't actually know when you have your eyes closed.

5) All space ships should have forests on them. Forests on space ships are AWESOME.

The Body Finder by Kimberly Derting

2010-05-13T11:08:00.000-07:00

Kimberly Derting's debut novel, The Body Finder, is an elegant addition to your To Be Read list. Derting has crafted an intriguing novel with just enough hint of the paranormal to make it interesting, while maintaining a realistic grounding that keeps the narrative refreshing.

Violet Ambrose has a morbid gift: She senses "echoes" of murders that cling to both the victim and the killer. These echoes manifest as an additional sensory experience—a taste, a smell, a sound, a sparkle of rainbow-colored light. Each echo is unique to its kill, and every animal—or person—who has killed carries those echoes with them for rest of their lives.

Weird, true, but manageable. Violet's bigger problem is that she's returned to high school after a summer break to discover puberty has replaced her best friend, Jay, with a guy whom every girl in school wants to date—including Violet. But can she risk their friendship? Is it wrong to have those feelings for her best friend?

As the narrative progresses into that well-known tale of two friends falling in love, girls from the area start going missing and bodies start being found.

The Body Finder is very much a teen romance with a solid thriller subplot. It handles both aspects well. By building suspense through the use of those monsters who are completely human to create the horror, Derting's debut stands out from every other paranormal title on the shelf. The interludes from the killer's perspective, which are woven through the story when it most needs that little extra push to keep the pacing going, are some of the finest passages in the novel.

Which is not to discredit the appeal of Derting's main characters and their young love blossoming. Teens will find it relevant; adults will find it nostalgic. The story takes its time to set the tone, paint the scenery, and builds to a satisfying climax that will leave you breathless.

The Body Finder made my list of top reads for 2010, and I'm very much anticipating its follow-up, DESIRES OF THE DEAD, in March 2011.

Victory of the Daleks

2010-05-03T10:15:00.000-07:00

I'm unconvinced that I even liked this episode, so I'm probably just going to mock it. Ready?

This was the episode that was all about the New!Shiny! Daleks. The twist was that they gave us a whole bunch of New!Shiny! Daleks. My personal favorites were the Ironsides... because they were incredibly creepy with their shouty servitude and tea bringing.

You should not allow Daleks to serve you tea.

The most awesome thing about these special edition Daleks: The Ironsides have POCKETS AROUND THEIR NECKS. Who are those pockets for? Not the Ironsides—their little plunger arms can't open a snap that's on the other side of their bodies. Is it where they keep their tea that they're so happy to make for the allied forces?

Again, completely with 11 on his decision. Daleks should be hit with things. Giant Iron Wrenches are a good choice, but I still think a large mallet would have been more satisfying—and have absorbed the impact shock.

I couldn't find a picture of the New!Shiny!Daleks, so just pretend this picture of iPod Nanos are them. They're totally similar: shiny brightly-colored plastic ready to seriously rock out to some Ke$ha while obliterating all other MP3 players.

I recommend as you look at the photo you say in a Dalek voice: WE ARE HERE TO PLAY YOU MUSIC. YOU WILL ENJOY OR YOU WILL BE DISINTEGRATED. That way you can feel like you're watching the episode with me.

Welcome the new Dalek Color-Coded Death Paradigm, which is not nearly as entertaining as Daleks in pointy pope hats.

My last complaint about this episode? Thanks to Mark Gatiss—whose episodes have never really been my cup of Dalek-served tea—I am now scared of eating Peek Freans Fruit Creme cookies. Yes, it might be a cookie, but what if it's actually a TARDIS self-destruction device that just looks like a cookie? How could I live with myself if I caused the TARDIS to self-destruct because I could only find old lady cookies to have with my Dalek-served tea?

To sum up, the only thing in this episode that actually matters: Why doesn't Amy remember the rather unforgettable events of series four?

The Beast Below

2010-04-25T16:11:00.000-07:00

I enjoyed "The Beast Below" more than "The Eleventh Hour," because this second episode gets back to what Steven Moffat is really good at: Scaring the crap out of us.

What I really adore about Doctor Who—especially when it's done well—is the creation of an entire time/world within a single episode. The social/political issues of Starship UK hit close to my heart, as we're asked should we willfully wipe the truth from our minds and the issue of choice versus the illusion of choice.

I love that Moffat created the parallel between the voting booths and Amy's desire to protect the Doctor from the choice. His anger at the decision being made for him—"You don't get to choose what I know"—was the most human 11 has been yet. Also the oldest and the kindest and the very last... was beautiful. So it was wonderful to get to see the depth and range of emotions from all the characters.

Loved, loved Liz Ten. She was rocking the little red riding hood and the six shooters—it was like something out of Buffy! Loved the Winders and their gas rings; terrified of the Smilers, and can't believe that Starwhale vomit was a legitimate plot point.

My only concerns are that dear lovely Matt Smith doesn't quite do angry as well as his predecessors and the recap. Not questioning the necessity of connecting the dots for the audience—it is a kids show and the delivery was handled well—just the placement in this episode. It took away from the tension a little to do a breadcumb collection in the middle of "OMG THE DOCTOR IS GOING TO FRY A STARWHALE'S BRAIN." (Maybe that was the point?)

Two final thoughts: (A) Starwhales make me think of Peter Watts, and (B) I can't wait to see 11 hit a Dalek with a mallet.

2010-04-24T10:20:00.000-07:00

Two weeks have now since I last had any word on the progress of FRAGMENTS with editors. There was a second pass the week I was in NYC; it sounded like we had an editor but the publishing group wouldn't come on board—and they get the final say. So it went a step further—as far as I know—than anyone else has taken something, and it was from one of the original round of editors. (Also known as They Who Remained Silent.)

We shall see what next week brings.

2010-04-20T15:48:00.000-07:00

Today marks the release of Radiant Shadows, the fourth and penultimate book in Melissa Marr's Wicked Lovely/Tales of Faerie series. Congratulations, Aunty Melissa!

It's also Antiphrastic's birthday, so happy to you. I heard she got Beatles Rock Band...

I spent the day getting reviews up on Community, working on signage for Kimberly Derting's signing, and wondering how Spider Girl got her powers. (It's a mysterious mystery that I realize Wikipedia could easily solve for me.)

I've been running the numbers, and I'd like to share something with you. Let's posit that this manuscript I'm drafting is going to be 75,000 words. (Honestly, I don't know. The fox one was longer because it started out as an adult novel, so I'm guessing about 75 kilowords as FRAGMENTS was about 73.) If I write 1000 words a day—a very manageable goal—then it would take 64 days to complete. In other words, I would have a draft by the end of July.

I'd better get cracking.

Being a writer is like being Spider-Man

2010-04-19T23:52:00.000-07:00

This is what I told a friend earlier today: Being a writer is like being Spider-Man. She responded by asking if I meant with great power comes great responsibility, which is appropriate but not really my line of thinking. Nor was I making a clever link between costumes and pen names. (Y'know, like superhero costumes, most pen names are funny looking.)

Peter Parker has one of the crappiest lives in all of comicdom. He gets the stuffing beat out of him on a daily basis defending a city that acts like most of the time that they'd rather he pack it up and move to Jersey. He can't ever seem to get a break—and when he does, you know it's because something is probably going to go wrong as soon as you turn the page.

Despite this, he's still out there webslinging like maybe today's the day when things are going to go his way for a change. Being Spider-Man makes his life hell, but he does it. (I don't believe it's completely motivated by his guilt over what happened to Uncle Ben.) Something I always respected about Pete is that he walked away. He threw that suit in a trashcan and tried to have a normal life. He even succeeded for a little while.

There's only so much crap that any human being—super powers or not—can take. Burning out and walking away? It's what makes Peter Parker sympathetic in a way that Bruce Wayne will never be.

Last year, I had had enough being bounced off brick walls. I threw that Serious-Writer suit in the trash can and was all "I am seeking publishing no more..." Sure, my eyes strayed to where I'd stashed the spare mask when I heard of other author's deals. It's hard to break the habit. I even put the boots on for a couple weeks in November. Y'know, just seeing if they still fit.

As life fell apart around me, I realized that I was hurting myself more than any rejection letter ever could. I was denying what gave me purpose. I'm not saying there aren't other things that provide a sense of fulfillment, but there's a hunger that only writing truly sates.

Once you've been bitten by a radioactive writing bug, there's only one choice that will ever make your happiest. You put the suit back on and go out there. Regardless of the fear. Regardless of the doubts. Regardless of the sacrifices. Maybe it's a thankless job. Maybe it's a crap life. But someone has to save the world—even if it's just the one created in a WORD file.

The Eleventh Hour

2010-04-18T11:08:00.000-07:00

One of the greatest things about watching Doctor Who is watching someone meet the Doctor for the first time—or meet him again with his new face. Realizing they've stumbled onto a fantastic adventure; a show that can be everything and anything. One that doesn't just reinvent itself each episode as a different genre, but reinvents its main protagonist as part of its mythos.

When we get a new Doctor, the show celebrates it. Everything is new again for us, because it's all new again for him. We needed that after we said goodbye to Ten, because 98% of us weren't ready for David Tennant to leave.

Matt Smith, however, is the Doctor. He breathes the role from the moment The Eleventh Hour begins. This new Doctor is confident, but not arrogant. He's silly, but not manic. He takes everything in stride, and when he spins around or he does something completely mad... it seems natural. As it should be.

Amy Pond is fantabulous. 11 has his hands full, but their collective madness balances out to a dynamic, powerful chemistry that compliments the tone of the show perfectly. And yes, the whole she's running away before her wedding day is a little obvious but it's not the annoying kind of obvious. It's the writerly kind—the "Aha! I was right" when the reveal comes.

One of the reasons that I admire Steven Moffat so is because he can take something like a statue and make it terrifying. He can transform the simple into the fantastical. He does it without losing a sense of humor. His Doctor Who episodes are usually more moving, more terrifying than any "mature" show on television. They're less blood and guts and more psychological and gothic.

If The Eleventh Hour is an indication of what's to come, we are in for a hell of a ride this series—and I, for one, can't wait to see where we go next week.

2010-04-13T11:03:00.000-07:00

So there wasn't any actual in NYC blogging besides my last post.

Sorry.

I have a travel journal that I need to sort through so I can weed out the personal things that aren't really meant to go in the public domain and some photos that I need to get organized. There will be blogging, but it may not be until next week since I haven't had a look to see how many of the photos are actually in focus.

Quickly, I loved the city. Loved the hotel. Very much want to return there. I did, even, consider how I might come to live there... then realized I should probably be a little more realistic/practical about that sort of thing. ;)

More to come....

2010-04-08T18:17:00.000-07:00

As I said on twitter, I'm sitting in Art Deco Heaven—AKA the Waldorf=Astoria lobby, where the wifi is free. It means I have to make an effort to come check my email, but it's pretty chill and there's currently some live piano+vocal music happening in one of the lounges that's providing lovely bgm.

This is probably the most relaxed I've been all day, which was spent in a hellish customs line and airplane/port limbo since about 7:30 this morning. We've already walked past St Bart's and visited the amazing Grand Central Station.

Tomorrow is insane, as three days worth of touring gets squeezed into one. I'm headed back up to the room for a shower and to get to sleep.

2010-04-07T11:08:00.000-07:00

As I sit in a quiet area of YVR, it occurs to me that travel and a lack of caffeine is perfectly expressed in the slightly hazy way the mist clings to the trees beyond the terminal buildings and runways.

It's one of those grey cloud-moving mornings that are best spent in bed, writing, or well, on a plane to somewhere that isn't so grey. Since I can't have the first option, I'll have to make due with the second then third.

I'll be in NYC this weekend—an insane packaged tour that I was invited to join as part of my aunt's birthday. I won't tell you how old she is, but it's one of those significant numbers that requires doing something impressive. Although, I am stepping out of part of the plans to spend an afternoon with my agent.

Next week, I've got a couple days in Edmonton to recover from the jet lag and then I'll return home and to thejob. At some point I've got to look at a manuscript that a friend has been waiting to hear feedback for. Not sure when, but there will be travel blogging about NYC. It'll just depend on when I can get to it.

And it begins...

2010-03-30T18:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes "no" isn't a bad thing.

For example, if one went out on submission in February of 2009 and one had yet to hear any kind of response from those eight editors, then one's agent sent a reminder to those eight editors and discovered that one of the eight no longer even worked for that publishing house, and then one's agent submitted to another six or seven editors in addition to the seven who had had the manuscript for a year...

Well, getting a response—even a no—would be a welcome thing. It may comfort one with the knowledge that one isn't completely delusional about having a manuscript on submission. Perhaps said manuscript wasn't being used as kitty litter or whatever the digital equivalent of kitty litter is, as one had begun to suspect.

It's true, I don't like to wait. But after a year? I'm getting rather good at it. You know what else I'm good at? Handling a pass. One from a publishing house that I'm not really fussed about working with? That's not even a pass, it's more a mutual agreement that we wouldn't be a good fit. (Also, learning to recognize what's a real issue and what's a philosophical difference.)

I'm not going to lie. I went through a phase where I thought I would take any offer, any editor. But that's desperation talking, and it's so not sexy. The idea of having any editor doesn't do it for me. I want the right editor. I want to work with someone whom I can trust not to have ridiculous arguments with me because we have completely incompatible visions of what a book should be.

It's a compliment to know this editor couldn't stop reading the manuscript and enjoyed the narrator and the dynamic between the two main characters. When someone will tell you that, even if they won't say say yes, it means you have something good. Even if they don't like another aspect. Even if they don't offer. You still wrote something they enjoyed. Maybe they didn't adore it, but they liked it—and the right editor will love it.

Had this editor made an offer pending a request for revisions to alter what they didn't like? I would have told them no. (Not that it really matters, as they didn't say they'd look at the manuscript again if I made changes.)

I know who I am. I know what I write. It's different and it's hard to pigeonhole, and that's not going to change. I'm looking for someone who wants to make my manuscript better, not make it into something that it isn't. If that means waiting, then I wait.

One Book, One Twitter

2010-03-25T17:47:00.000-07:00

I love Wired.com. When in doubt for content, I go there and I always find they've got something cool for me to read.

One Book, One Twitter or #1b1t is this nifty brainchild of Jeff Howe—@crowdsourcing—who has conceived of trying to get as many people as possible on twitter to participate in all reading the same book at the same time. Like what the city of Seattle's been doing since 1988 or the Canada Reads program CBC sponsors. Except international and in 140 character bursts. Three of the top possible titles thus far? American Gods, 1984, and Fahrenheit 451.

I submitted Cory Docotorow's Little Brother, because it's more relevant to our generation—and way less depressing than Orwell—as well as Melissa Marr's Wicked Lovely, because it's an accessible recent fantasy that's readily available in multiple languages.

If you were going to choose one book for all of twitter to read, what would it be? Reply in the comments—or better yet, submit your choice.

Incarceron by Catherine Fisher

2010-03-22T10:23:00.000-07:00

Well, it took until nearly the end of March but I finally found my first great book of the year. Which isn't to say that I haven't read a few others that I enjoyed, just that this is the first one I feel the need to encourage everyone I know to read.

Catherine Fisher's Incarceron is one of those ambitious epic stories. However, to Fisher's credit and obvious writing experience, Incarceron never becomes overwhelming. Finn's epic fantasy quest is balanced by Claudia's more intimate Regency-esque plot. On their own, either storyline would make a decent—and very different—novel. Together, they form a brilliant one.

Dual narratives are not easy to do well. Scott Westerfeld's Leviathan stubbornly adhered to its single POV per chapter even after the narratives intersected. This created a very choppy novel by allowing the structure to dictate whose POV we followed. Incarceron is more successful, as the POV follows whom it needs to follow for the sake of the story.

Ironically, my only technical complaint about Incarceron is the few instances where Fisher jumps POV while in a scene. She'll do a paragraph or two with Finn then switch to Claudia. I understand why it's happening—the scene isn't linked to perspective as much as purpose—but it did jar me out of the narrative once or twice. Largely because we're well into the novel before this more omnipotent POV is employed—giving the impression that the structure is alternating limited third person. Thus, my confusion.

I've read that Incarceron has been optioned by Fox; it doesn't surprise me someone wants to do a film adaptation. One of the things I enjoyed the most about this book is the amazing world and it's stunning imagery. There is a forest of metal; stop for a moment and consider how brilliant that is going to look onscreen.

Incarceron draws on everything from Dante to Jane Austen. There's adventure, intrigue, a tiny dash of romance, and lots of chewy philosophy. I emphasis that this is a fantasy novel. In a section overstaturated with paranormal romance, Incarceron is a refreshing find.

This book is all about the cells that we build for ourselves, both psychologically and physically. You're going to be hard-pressed to find a more interesting antagonist than a living prison.

As for the plot? Incarceron could be a long lost Square Enix game. It has those comforting familiarities, but it's different enough to keep you interested. You feel compelled to see it through to the end. I knew a "twist" from about chapter four on—and it didn't get in the way of enjoying the novel. That's a rarity. Usually knowing where a book is headed bores me, but Fisher's vision and method of fully employing her world kept me hooked.

When I wasn't reading Incarceron, I was wondering what would happen next. As a result, I read most of the book in a single day because I didn't want to do anything else. When I reached the end, breathless, all I could think was "there has to be more!"

According to Catherine Fisher's website, there is a sequel called Sapphique. I've gone looking for the UK edition because I can't wait until December to see if Finn has a total identity meltdown and hits things with the Key. (Yes, that was a Kingdom Hearts II reference.)

So go read Incarceron. If you can't get access to the UK edition of Sapphiqu e, the US version is set to drop in late December.

2010-03-14T13:51:00.000-07:00

It's not that I don't have anything to say; it's that I don't have anything I want to blog.

When I do, you'll know.

Until then: use twitter.

February 14, 2010

2010-02-14T11:40:00.000-08:00

It is a new lunar year, glowing and shiny with promise. The year of the Tiger, for courage and ferocity. For passion and the mad love that keeps us all motivated. For the conviction that wins us gold and glory.

Love is a complicated, many-feathered splendor. If you feel lonely today, stop. Because love isn't a person or a ring or a heart-shaped box of chocolates. Love is what you do.

My hope for you, this first courageous day, is that you spend time doing something you love. If the opportunity presents itself, I hope you can make someone else feel that love, too.

There is something you do that's beautiful and magical and it makes the world a better place. Share it, because we all could use a little more wonder in our lives.

The Great and Terrible FAILBeast Weekend

2010-02-01T10:54:00.000-08:00

I bet you're surprised I know about AmazonFAIL because you're all like "but, Ethan, you're from the future and stuff."

Yes, I am. I'm also from the past and the present. Remember Beyond Time? Lovecraft sucks at Rockband? Just trust me this once. For I offer a unique Beyond Time perspective on your recent internet explosion scandal.

Most of you are worried people will forget the AmazonFAIL. Like they forgot the HarlequinFAIL because there was this new shiny FAIL to remember.

I tell you this: People do not forget what happened for you this weekend. Scalzites gather for years to come. Hold vigils. Honor the fallen warriors. Serious. There's pie and turkey. They call it Winter Failsgiving. To give thanks for the fails. Or the ceasing of the fails. One of those.

After pie, they gather around campfires and tell scary stories of the great FAILbeast Weekend.

It goes a little something like this:

This dude, Scalzi, had a magic series of tubes that he used to fight injustice. The tubes were invented by Al Gore, but he realized they wouldn't fight climate change so he gave them to The Wise Doctorow who shared them with Scalzi. Because all who had used the tubes felt they were a tool to make the world a better place. A place where you could share magic spells. Look at funny pictures of cats. Or even read books that weren't really books. They were like magic screen books.

Magic screen books were awesome because you didn't need to kill trees to make them or waste fuel to ship them. That made Al Gore very happy. But the magic series of tubes was always getting stolen by FAILbeasts. FAILbeasts didn't really care about trees or making the world a better place. They were all about survival. Their survival. Which they assumed was totally threatened by the magic series of tubes not being regulated.

FAILbeastAmzn was like "Whoa, I bet these magic screen books would totally draw many humans to me so I could eat their tasty brainmeats!"

FAILbeastAmzn bartered for the magic screen books. Then it used them to lure humans into eternal servitude. Feasted on their brainmeats. People were like "well, it's the only way to read these magic screen books and they are The Way of The Future."

This went on for a while. Until one day, this dude name McMillian was like "um, I want to sell my magic screen books for a higher price, because your low price is devaluing them. I gots to pay the pixies who magically craft the stories for my screen books. Cupcakes aren't cheap."

FAILbeastAmzn said "Fine. BURRRRP. Oh excuse me. I seem to have belched out a plague that has vanquished your entire pixie village."

Did I mention that Scalzi was a pixie? He was. A space pixie who worked in a few villages because he was a wandering adventurer. It made it easier to fight injustice that way.

So Scalzi got the magic tubes and he gathered some other pixies and they all ripped the FAILbeast a new one. The FAILbeast was like "OH EM GEE now everyone knows I'm a douchebag. They'll stop offering me their cash munnies and I'll have no tasty brainmeats. Sadness."

And the pixies were like "Maybe we seem insignificant but we can band together and attack with the viciousness of ravenous werewolves. Not those nice werewolves, either. The really old-school nasty bastard ones."

The End. Yay! Applause.

After the story everyone nods and feels grateful that they are never asshats to their storytellers. In the future people remember storytellers keep the history and they teach the children. All those future people on Winter Failsgiving totally know that if the world lost its storytellers, there'd be no one to save it from the FAILbeasts.

Trufax.

Book Anniversary Contest winner

2010-01-21T15:12:00.000-08:00

Yes, the time-honored tradition of pulling slips of paper out of my hat has spoken. Thus is it so: Congratulations to Melanie Golden!

Thank you to everyone who entered and left the great comments and RT stuff on twitter.

Happy Birthday Tarot Cafe Novel Contest!

2010-01-13T17:21:00.000-08:00

It's my book's birthday today. It turned a year old.

That's right, a year ago today I had a book published. It was brilliant. This book brought a lot of cool stuff into my life—great people and amazing opportunities. I hope that you all get to have that feeling many times in your lives.

So in gratitude for the love, support, and general awesomeness: I'm giving away a signed copy of The Tarot Cafe Novel: The Wild Hunt. I did a year ago, and it seems like a good thing to make into a tradition.

Until the 19th at Midnight PST:

So drop a note in the comments with how I can reach you for +1 entries.

RT on twitter and I'll give you +2 entries.

Here is a picture of the book's provocative cover!

If that's not enough, let me remind you Sequential Tart gave it a 9/10 and the book did reach #8 on an obscure Amazon.com top seller list. (Obscure top seller lists are the best obscure lists.)

It also has pictures! (I didn't draw them. Please stop asking if I did.)

So enter. Tell your friends to enter. You need something to read while you wait for Glee to return!

What's happened so far...(Thursday Morning)

2010-01-07T15:27:00.000-08:00

On Thursday morning, I was attacked by a Talky Face Pancake. Totally disrupted my breakfast and gave me a syrup burn when it tried to gum my arm.

Dante—whom everyone calls Andy for magical reasons we don’t need to get into—came to visit.

Dante and I embarked on a quest to find Stellina, who is who the pancake claimed to have been by.

Instead of finding Stellina, we found Maria. We were always going to find Maria instead of Stellina, but I didn’t tell you or Dante this.

Dante agreed to help Maria, a newcomer to the Twilight Lands, locate a place to live. We decided to try looking in Vancouver, which is one of your vanished cities.

In Vancouver, we realized Avalon was there. Avalon is my friend and Dante’s uncle.

When we found Avalon in a coffee place, we were attacked by Sconey MacScone. Sconey MacScone is a vile cranberry scone who spat dried cranberries at us. After Maria stabbed Sconey MacScone with a fork, the scone admitted that the former city of London sent it. And then the scone exploded. We were asked to leave the coffee place.

Not-Stellina told the former city of London that it’s my brother’s fault the former city was swallowed by the dream fields and is no longer a city. This was a lie. We’d like to find the former city of London to tell it this. Avalon felt the first step was to report the former city missing. Dante went with him. They’re now missing.

Maria and I were found by my cousin Neill—Dante’s Dad. If you’re confused as to who is related to whom and how, I will make this easy: Neill is Avalon’s older half-brother. Dante is Neill’s son. I am not related to Avalon.

Most recently, I was regaling Maria with the interesting tale of when I made friends with this dude named Lovecraft. He was sure he was having a dream, which is why he was all ‘Oh my, this is a most absurd dream.’ So I was all ‘Well, where I’m from is like a place in your dreams.’ He was all ‘My dreams are scary. They have shoggoths in them.’ I was like ‘Yeah, soap bubbles scare me, too. I don’t trust their sneaky popping.’

I told him about my world, the Twilight Lands, and how it defies human comprehension. On a regular basis. And he was like ‘Whoa, dude, that’s pretty scary.’ I was all like ‘Dude, I know. I’m from there, remember?’

Then he was all like ‘Dude, you know what really scares me? I mean like for serious? Time. I am so scared of time. It makes me feel insignificant and like I’m gonna die without really have accomplished anything.’ I was all like ‘Dude, that sucks. There’s no time where I’m from.’ He was all like ‘Whoa, dude, wait. You’re like from…beyond time?’ And I was like ‘Damn Skippy Peanut Butter, I sure am.’

Naturally, this led him to be very much like ‘Whoa, dude, who are you?’ And I was ‘I’m an Old One, dude. We’re totally awesome Elder Gods who have been and will be long after you’re dust. Do you want to play Rock Band with me or what?’

You doubt Lovecraft talked like that. You’re thinking, E—because you’re under the mistaken pretense that we’re friends or I like you and therefore you can call me E—Dude, seriously, Lovecraft would have never been that succinct. He would have rambled on for paragraphs. He did. But I’m paraphrasing what he said so that you don’t have to read all his inane babble about time and tentacles. Little HP had a serious grudge against a bad plate of calamari.

Now you’re thinking, Ethan—because you remember I never said you could call me E—Dude, seriously, you never told us you knew HP Lovecraft. You’re right. I didn’t. I’m just making sure you’re paying attention. Some people would be lazy and just read a summary so they didn’t have to read the actual blog entries.

Zero

2010-01-01T13:53:00.000-08:00

I woke to great, fluffy flakes of snow gently falling this morning. The snow people write poems to sing about—the kind that falls amidst a sky that's managing to be a cheerful sort of grey. Playing through my head, for some reason, was the Glee cover of "You Can't Always Get What You Want."

It got me wondering, what is it about New Year's Day? It is just that it offers what we all want after a year that's ground us down and left us feeling empty—a new beginning? A fresh start. The canvas back again to paint a better future, because this time we'll get it right.

2009, for me, felt about three years long. My young adult manuscript went on submission to eight editors in late February. December passed without a response from any of them.

10 months of silence. 10 months of waiting. 10 months of hope growing weary, starved and forced to make weapons of paving stones while doubt after doubt tried to breech the walls. The last 3 months were spent feeling utterly powerless and trapped. A situation that's neither pleasant nor conductive to being a productive, creative person.

I didn't blog about it, because I was ashamed. Frightened that speaking about it would mean admitting that perhaps I was handcuffed to a most spectacular failure. By no means am I suggesting that no one else struggled and kicked their way through the 2009. Many of us did. Fighting our own battles against circumstances not entirely of our making.

I think that's why 2010 seems so significantly important. It has nothing to do with decades ending or a countdown to when Mayan Elder Gods return to eat the Earth. It has to do with a social consciousness desperate for some kind of do-over. A rest from this year that seemed so much longer than 12 months.

Along comes 2010: A sparkling, beautiful, perfect new year. The best gift anyone could ask for.

The song says you can't always get what you want. But somewhere around September, I realized that I don't know what I want anymore. Because what I thought I wanted has never felt so frustratingly out of reach. Dangling there long past the point of this fox declaring the grapes are probably sour.

Now, here's a lovely January first. All sunshine on the snow and white mountains and the kind of winter day that people sing about in the places where it never really snows the real, mean, cold snow. It makes me feel forgiving.

Like I can offer a do-over. A rollback. Set that counter to zero and start anew. Believe again that it will happen, it is happening, it has already happened.

If nothing else, I hope this darling little year can do that for you. Because—like the song says—if you try, sometimes you get what you need.

The Beginning of an Era

2009-12-26T14:11:00.000-08:00

A friend pointed out, and it finally sunk in, that the end of 2009 isn't just a much needed clean slate—it's the end of a decade. I look back over the past ten years, and I'm so grateful. Rendered somewhat speechless. I have done and accomplished so much.

As I graduated high school in 1999, one could say I spent the decade after trying to find what it was that I wanted to do with my life. I went to college. Switched majors. Taught English in Japan. Graduated from college. Moved to Los Angeles. Lived three different lives there. Learned how to grieve. Got published. Learned how to celebrate. Saw Paris. Spent time in England. Returned to Japan. Got discovered via blogging. Got an agent. Completed my first work-for-hire. Got paid to write. Saw not one, but two different manuscripts go out on submission. Learned how to deal with 'No Thank You.' Moved back to Canada. Became a barista. Learned how to make jewelry. Did book-signings and readings. Went to author events—including meeting Aunty Melissa and Neil. Became a bookseller. Started a teen book club. Met the CEO of Chapters/Indigo and hand-sold her Beautiful Creatures.

And the truth is, I did get what I needed. Always. Even if what I needed was what I didn't want. I've learned what makes me happy and leaves me feeling fulfilled. I know what I can't tolorate—and what I actually can.

Maybe I don't quite know what I want to do when I grow up, but I know what will help me be a healthy and productive adult. There is always more to do. More to see and experience. Life is really just getting started as this decade pulls into its destination.

Part of what draws me to speculative fiction is an optomstic hope that we can make a better future. I firmly believe we have the ingenuity to solve our present problems. We'll never have a utopia, because I don't think human beings are built to be happy on a plateau. We're climbers. Survivors.

I suppose what I mean is that I look at my life and I choose hope. You can remind me of that if I seem to forget. (I know I do sometimes.)

Hello 2010, come on in. Sit down and make yourself at home. I can't wait to see what you've brought your hosts.

Winter Tale

2009-12-20T15:30:00.000-08:00

Being that I have to work on the Solstice, I am unable to participate in lighting the candles and playing music to frighten away the darkness. I do trust the sun is going to return, but the gesture is what's important, isn't it?

So here it is. I have a gift. It's a story, of course, because that is what I do. I tell tales. If you'd like one to keep you company this holiday season, it's yours. The story is about 5000 words. It is connected to a world I'm developing, but it's one separate from the manuscripts that are out on submission.

Drop a comment with your email address before December 25th (2009), and I'll send the tale to you. All I ask in return is that you respect it's being given for your personal use. It is a typeset PDF that you can read onscreen or print with Acrobat. If you need—or want—to reformat it for use with an e-reader, consider this your written permission to do so.

2009 Top Ten Teen Reads

2009-12-17T11:11:00.000-08:00

Notes before we begin:
(1) Trilogies (proper ones) count as a single item if all books were available.
(2) This is complied from all the teen books I've read this year, not the ones released this year.
(3) I will tell you why the book got on the list—which may or may not tell you what it was about.
(4) The number ranking correlates to the order I thought of them in, not necessarily meant as a reflection of quality.

1) Beautiful Creatures by Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl

This book, for me, came out of nowhere. Grabbed me and refused to let me go. It made a home in my heart—as all of these books have. It did this by being refreshing: Set in a small town; narrated by a boy; great concept, and so much fun.

Most importantly: the romantic relationship in this novel betters the characters. They treat each other with respect. They are braver for each other. They have a realistic and healthy relationship. "Cursed love" in this novel is shown for what it is, a fear and intolerance of those who are different.

2) Eyes Like Stars by Lisa Mantchev

This book is amazing because, again, it's different. It's written in third person! A sweet, funny, light-hearted story that is still dramatic and emotionally moving. When I read this book, I feel proud to be a writer.

3) Going Bovine by Libba Bray

This is the closest thing I've seen to the ambition of American Gods in years. Going Bovine is one of those insanely brilliant books that should have fallen apart and been absolutely terrible. It isn't. It's magnificent. Cameron's voice is so, so real. The book is hilarious. It stands apart from the rest of the books on the shelf.

4) The Mortal Instruments Trilogy by Cassandra Clare

The only reason this isn't the best thing I've read this year, is because I really didn't care if Clary and Jace got to make kissy faces and have babies. That was the least interesting part of the trilogy to me. (And most of what City of Bones was surface-level about.) But it still is so much fun. Like Buffy fun. Most teens probably don't understand what a compliment that is. TMI is Good and Clever. A complex, wonderful story that seeds clues well and rewards a close read.

5) Little Brother by Cory Doctorow

I am pissed off Cory did not win an Aurora—or was even nominated—for this teen novel. It's one of the most important books on the teen shelves. In the years to come, people are going be required to read this novel in school (on their eReaders.) Privacy, Civil Liberties, and Alternate Reality Games? Come on, this is real science fiction. Both terrifying and inspiring.

6) My Soul to Take by Rachel Vincent

Proving books don't always have to have explosions to get my attention, this paranormal romance is so sweet and delightfully grounded in reality. Rachel has really accomplished something in this novel. It's well written, I care about the characters, and it's suspenseful and conflicted without being melodramatic.

7) The Gemma Doyle Trilogy by Libba Bray

I was so thrilled to read Victorian-era novels that did not bore me. Quite the opposite, I found this trilogy empowering. I liked the characters. I adored the voice. It's first person present tense done well—and not a romance. Anyone who pulls off the ending that Libba Bray did in The Sweet Far Thing deserves epic recognition.

8) Liar by Justine Larbalestier

This book is incredible. An unrelaible first person narrator in the teen department? Shut up! Fabulous. Wonderfully written, expertly crafted, and you can choose which book-reality is the truth. I love a great psychological thriller, and this is best one I've read all year.

9) The Forest of Hands and Teeth by Carrie Ryan

I don't like zombies. I don't like post-apocalyptic. Yet, this hauntingly beautiful and deceptively bleak book is so amazing. Oh the voice of this novel! It was heart-wrenching to read. You want to know why Hunger Games isn't on this list? Read The Forest of Hands and Teeth. Its cliffhanger ending still gets under my skin.

10) Fragile Eternity by Melissa Marr

Not matter what my feelings on Ash or the ending of this book, I still love Seth and Sorcha. I love them and their character arcs enough to happily put Aunty Melissa's third novel on this list. (Now give me RADIANT SHADOWS.)

Honorable mention that aren't found on the teen shelves:

1) Rick Riordan's Percy Jackson & The Olympians: A 9–12/MG series that combines Greek mythology, mayhem, and heroic quests. Way too much fun. I was so sad to say goodbye at the end of The Last Olympian.

2) Robert J Sawyer's Wake: Accessable to teens, but found in the adult sci fi section. This combines the internet, a blind girl undergoing an operation that allows her to see in an unexpected way, and the evolution of human consciousness. Easily my favorite of Sawyer's novels and the start of a promising new trilogy.

Two press bits

2009-12-11T17:52:00.000-08:00

The interviews I did earlier this fall have been turned into articles.

This is a profile piece, mostly about The Tarot Cafe Novel.

This is a larger article about Banned Book Week, Challenged Books, and Censorship in children's fiction.

The second one was a bit easier to do, as the interview was conducted via email. In the first, the journalism student was trying to write as we spoke. (Her recorder decided not to work.)

The Magicians & Hush Hush review

2009-12-10T15:19:00.000-08:00

Here are the next two of my borrowed from work reads. I would have been happy if I had bought Hunger Games and Beautiful Creatures. This time around, I'm feeling happy to see the following books go back on the shelf.

Hush Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick

I liked a lot of things about this book. I loved Fitzpatrick's take on angel mythology. Plus, I laughed out loud at parts where I was supposed to. Hush Hush is a fast, easy read. (I finished it in a single sitting.)

But I never quite got over the bad taste the relationship dynamic between Patch and Nora left in my mouth. Patch is a complete asshat. Now, you can argue that's the kind of character he has to be. Ok. I'm not asking for a debate about whether bad people deserve to be loved. My concern is what their relationship dynamic in this novel idealizes. Especially to readers still formulating their models of what a healthy relationship is.

Verdict: If you want to date Edward Cullen, you'll love Hush Hush. (But you shouldn't want to date Edward Cullen.)

The Magicians by Lev Grossman

I am certain this is a good book. It's certainly well-written. I, however, am not in the right headspace to read it at this time. It's a great "what if" for an adult version of Harry Potter, but I grew impatient and flipped to see if it was going anywhere. From the bits and bobs and I scanned, that where was Narnia.

I could have kept reading to find out the how and the why, but I decided I was more interested in the Percy Jackson & The Olympians series.

Verdict: Didn't get past Chapter 5, but would still recommend it for someone looking for a well-written, slower-paced fantasy standalone. Or an older teen seeking a potential entry point for the general fiction section.

What family is for

2009-11-30T13:14:00.000-08:00

Still no Dante. Still no Avalon. I guess they’re having trouble reporting a former city missing.

“Where were they going?” Maria asks.

“I guess they went to find a city guardian.” I rub my ear. “Not sure who else you’d report a former city missing to.”

“These guardians are like Enforcers?”

“In a way.”

I suppose we could have involved my brother instead of the guardians, but I’ve got a feeling that’s what Not-Stellina wants. She—whoever she actually is—is obviously keeping us distracted. Probably from something she’s doing in you world.

It’s risky going to her people about what she’s done. Draws attention to what we’ve done. We could all be in a world of trouble. But that’s exactly what Not-Stellina is counting on. Us being afraid of trouble. Handling this on our own to avoid it. She obviously doesn’t know Avalon very well.

“A Guardian would be the fastest and safest way to get a message to the Far Reaches,” I tell Maria. “That’s where Andy’s from.”

“That’s seriously what it’s called?” She giggles. “The ‘far reaches’?”

I shrug. “It’s what we call it.”

“And these people in the Far Reaches can do something to help us?”

“Possibly.”

Dante’s people have been here longer than mine. But there’s no love between our two territories. One of their people posing as one of ours wouldn’t be enough to raise an alarm. London would have to invade Over There. Or they’d have to feel threatened by the idea of one of your former cities roaming the Twilight Lands.

But telling the Far Reaches what happened isn’t about getting help. It’s about scaring Not-Stellina. Doing something she thinks we won’t. Making her reevaluate how to predict us now that Avalon’s involved. We can work silence to our advantage, too.

“Hmm.” Maria stands. “I think this is the first time you’ve sounded unsure.”

Sounds right. Even when your people have learned not to trust I’m telling the truth, they still believe that I am completely certain of what I’m doing.

I shrug. It’s safest. “I’m not really myself right now.”

“I noticed.” She dusts herself off. “You’re actually talking to me.”

She smiles as she says it, but it’s one meant to keep you from seeing how serious her eyes are.

I choose to see the smile instead and wonder if there’s anything to the theory that being connected to Creation makes me chatty. Matt isn’t overly talkative. Neither is Stellina. I don’t remember my father being verbose. I remember him laughing a lot. He was a good Twilight King. Would have never let us go to war among ourselves. Would have found a way to resolve things without violence.

Matt knows he isn’t the king our father was. I’m not sure my brother even thinks it’s worth trying to be.

“And now you’re staring off into space again,” Maria says.

“I’m not.” I blink. “I’m remembering.”

“Is that way your eyes are such a sad blue?”

“Must be.” I force a smile. It’s easy. I’ve had a lot of practice. “We should get you some shoes.”

“And clothes.” She works at the tangles in her curls. “And a shower. Do they have showers here?”

“Probably not. It’s a museum.”

She looks like she might push me or punch me lightly the way Girl Val does. Fondness expressed through mild violence. Odd. Maria’s not a Valor fragment.

She puts her hands on her hips instead. “You know what I mean, Ethan.”

“Are you bothering the young lady, cousin?”

I almost fall down the steps. Not telling you this to be funny. Telling you to fully express how WTF it was to hear that voice.

Maria turns. Squeaks a little. From surprise. Not a need for lubricants. It’s a natural response when it seems like someone’s father has sneaked up on you.

This someone’s father is tall. Not as tall as Avalon. Not even as tall as me. (Dante’s shorter than us, too.) But way taller than Maria. Height is not what makes our visitor frightening. Crazy hair is. Those of you who know Val are aware that he can get some decent height on the fauxhawk. Well, just imagine if that hair was curly. It can’t be directed. It just does whatever it wants. Unaccountable hair. Super irritating to someone who’s an accountant.

“Oh, hey Neill,” I say. Real causal-like. Like I didn’t almost fall down the steps a few heartbeats ago.

His black jacket is zipped up tight, but I know beneath it he’s wearing a highly saturated shade of something. Probably turquoise. A love of bright colors is how you know we’re related. My cousin and I don’t share much of a family resemblance. As I said, he looks like someone’s dad. I don’t.

Did I neglect to mention that Dante’s Dad and I are cousins? We are. Removed a few degrees, but still related. He’s much older than I am. Which takes a little bit of doing. I have, after all, sort of been around for a while. (More or less of a while depending on when you’re reading this.) Sometimes, to reinforce how old he is, I call him Uncle Neill. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Do you know everyone, Ethan?” Maria asks, careful to stay behind me.

Neill has scared her. He doesn’t even have his scythe with him. Seeing someone who looks so much like one of your people must be spooky after she’d finally just gotten used to me. Or she’s decided his hair means he’s a mad scientist.

“Not everyone,” I tell her. “I didn’t know the barista. If you’re looking for Andy—”

“No, I’m looking for Avalon.” Neill doesn’t comment on Maria. “He claimed he wished to speak with me, then he didn’t show. It’s a wee bit irritating.”

“He’s with Andy,” I say. “They’re reporting the former city of London missing.”

“London’s been missing for some time, and—did you say former city?”

I nod. “It’s not one anymore.”

“Dare I ask?” Neill asks, which means that he does dare. He’s just leaving himself an exit strategy.

“It’s probably best if you don’t.”

“Then I must.” He climbs the steps. “What is it now?”

“The master of talking pancakes and exploding scones sent to torment me out of the mistaken belief that its transformation is the fault of the Twilight King.”

Neill raises both eyebrows. “Are you having me on?”

I can see Maria’s puzzled look.

They all talk like that in the Far Reaches. You probably thought Avalon had the accent from being human. You’d be wrong. We’re not really sure where Val and Chio got theirs. I suspect it’s put on for the sake of convincing girls to make kissy faces with them.

Go on. Laugh. You haven’t witnessed the power Val’s accent has on females. He can say anything and they seem to think he’s being charming and clever.

“No, Sir,” Maria says. “It’s true. I was there when the scone exploded.”

Neill finally looks at her. Gives her a gentle smile. “That was rather unkind of it. Most fortunately, you appear unharmed.”

Her tension eases. He must be using the Hope on her. He’s better at directing it, even though his connection to it is less than Dante’s.

“So.” Neill looks at me. I can see trouble glinting in his violet eyes. “Would this lass be your girlfriend?”

“No,” she says. “He and Andy are just finding me a place. To, um, stay.”

He clicks his tongue. “That’s unusually kind of you, cousin.”

“What do you want, cousin?” I say it so it sounds more like get bent, Neill.

“As I previously mentioned, I’m looking for my brother. You tend to know where to find him when he’s gone a-wandering.”

“As I previously mentioned—” I am very good at mocking Neill’s accent— “I don’t know where he is. Just what he’s supposed to be a-doing.”

Maria grins. Win goes to me.

Neill takes the steps between us in quick, smooth strides and smacks me upside the head. The world spins a little, despite that I’m sure both of my feet are safely planted on cement. Music pounces. Loud and overlapping. Every song of power invading my ears. I wobble.

“There.” Neill snaps my headphones over my ears. “Better?”

Music muffles to a volume where I can filter through individual harmonies and measures. The universe ceases to feel like such a lonely place.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Don’t mention it, cousin.” He clamps an arm around my shoulders. “Knocking the sense back into you is a service I’m more than happy to provide. I trust you’ve finished moping and we can get on with finding those missing from your party?”

The difference between a good book and a great book

2009-11-28T12:15:00.000-08:00

Me working at a bookstore is a bit like a bartender who's alcoholic. Oh sure, customers benefit from our addictions making us something like experts, but it's not exactly healthy for us to be constantly surrounded by the things we crave most.

I have to stop buying books, because I'm not reading the ones I've bought. I get terribly excited about a book, purchase it, and then never actually get around to opening the cover. Fiscal responsibility, I has none. They should put me in charge of a major American bank.

There are things I "need" to read for Teen Book Club (although I had read all but two of our choices.) There are also other books I'm curious about, but not willing to let sit on a shelf for a year. So I take advantage of the employee borrowing option. If I have to read the book by a certain date, then I do.

This is how I came to take out both Beautiful Creatures and Hunger Games. Reading them one after the other enlightened me as to what makes the difference between a good book and a great book for me.

These are both good books. Potentially they could both be great books. Both are written in first person. Both are the first book of a set. Both are fantasy. To an extent, they're both distopian fantasies as neither world is the ideal world for the characters who inhabit it. (Sorry, in order for Hunger Games to be science fiction, there would have to be SCIENCE in it to explain the technology.)

Beautiful Creatures is set in contemporary South Carolina, a gorgeously magical novel about a boy who loves a girl from the "wrong" family. It has a rich setting. The town and the houses are as much characters as the people who dwell there. It is a story based on history, tracing the effects of the past on the present. It is just familiar enough to orient you, and different enough to keep you from being bored.

And, if you sit back and analyze what happens, it should be a very uninteresting novel. Going to the library or attending the Winter Formal is a big deal in Beautiful Creatures. Yet it is fascinating. It is a novel you cannot put down or walk away from. As my manager put it, it is one of those books where you spend your time while you aren't reading it wondering about the characters in it.

Hunger Games is—at its simplest—a survivalist narrative. An example of the ugliness of humanity played out through a general detachment from any sense of morality or compassion. It is a poignant comment on our society's obsession with "reality television" and the frightening way we have become desensitized to violence.

But the world is secondary, never really given an opportunity to become a fully realized member of the cast. Primarily because the Games take place in a human-controlled environment where the protagonist versus nature is just there for plot purposes.

That's the difference. That's what keeps Hunger Games from being a great book. It relies largely on the tension created by placing its main protagonist in mortal peril. Feel suspense in whether or not she lives. Feel sympathy for the horrid situation she's in. Like her because of how she manages to deal with it.

I read Hunger Games fully aware of whether or not the character lives, as will most of us who read it with the knowledge that there's a second novel. You know the answer, so there's no tension to the non-romance parts of the book. The major, driving conflict of the novel loses its bite. Maybe a couple twists happen, but I'm not on the edge of my seat needing to keep reading.

Hunger Games is a good book—based on its thematic content and social commentary. But it's not a great book, because it hinges on a single unknown to compel you to read it. It wants you to identify with a character through shared horror for the circumstances that she's been placed in rather than because you genuinely care about her. You don't really know enough about her to really care for her other than some "she's a good person, she had this terribly sad thing happen in her life" basics that come standard with the majority of protagonists. Furthermore, her very circumstances work against the novel, because they're completely fantastical and alien to most of the people I know.

This is not to say it's impossible to relate to Katniss. It's just really difficult to like her. I don't have time to read novels about characters I don't like.

Whereas Beautiful Creatures is a great book, because it isn't dependent on a single conflict to keep you interested. It employs both likable characters and a rich well-developed setting that can you could reach out and touch.

It is a perfect novel? No, I have issues with technical aspects of it. But they don't get in the way of me being able to enjoy the novel. There's enough going on in the narrative to keep me from being disinterested to the point where I'm conscious of its execution.

Beautiful Creatures is by far one of the loveliest books I've read this year, but Hunger Games left me feeling like I'd gone to a 5 star restaurant to be served a 3 star meal.

Don't Think, Just Write

2009-11-25T08:00:00.000-08:00

Today's guestblog is from @countmystars, with a little hope for what you may all learn from the NaNoWriMo/IndiWriMo experience.

Don't Think, Just Write

“Now the good times have begun, that's not a fire, it's just the sun, it's like the old man said, take the money and run – but what's the rush? Let's take the One.” – The Old 97's, “The One”

One of the pieces of advice writers hear most often is to edit, edit, edit. “Kill your darlings”, we're told. Cut out everything that isn't strictly necessary. Which is good advice, generally speaking, but how often do we internalize it to the point where we start editing before we should? How often do we self-censor during the drafting process, because we know we're not supposed to over-write – or stick too strictly to an outline because we've already decided what's important to the story, and nothing else is allowed in? Being able to edit is an essential skill in rewriting, but it can be deadly in the drafting process.

Sometimes it's easy to get bogged down in the “should”s and forget that a first draft is just that – a first draft. Space to play and experiment and figure out exactly what your story is. To over-write, if you want, just to follow an idea and see where it takes you. To ramble on about the characters' favorite bands and how much they hate their landlord and everything except the plot, when the ideas won't come and you don't know what the next scene is. So what if you're not “supposed to”... just because the scene won't end up in the finished draft doesn't mean it lacks value. Over and above the fact that it can be fun to just write without feeling the need to get through a scene as quickly as you can, the pages you write and eventually cut may turn out to be good for your story.

NaNoWriMo participants often get a bad rap for padding their word counts, babbling on and on just to meet their daily quota or reach 50,000 words faster. But this approach to the first draft has many hidden benefits. Those conversations between characters that run on for three pages can reveal who the characters are outside their function in advancing the plot. Florid paragraphs of description may hide unexpected phrases that make your story sing. There will be time enough to identify and polish these jewels in the revision process – right now, for your first draft, just switch off your inner editor and see what happens. We've all heard of those moments of great inspiration that happen while a writer is “in the flow”... it's much easier to achieve that flow when we quit worrying about whether the scene we're writing will end up in the finished story or not.

Another benefit of the “don't think, just write” approach is that it makes writing feel less like work. Most of us started traveling this path because we love to write, but it's all too easy to lose sight of this when we're overwhelmed with advice from all sides and trying too hard to follow it all. When we focus too much on our destination and lose sight of the journey. So, whether you're charging ahead towards 50,000 this November, or noodling around with a new short story, try taking the scenic route. Stop along the way and explore. Have fun. Play. Experiment. Discover what your story really is. Whether you reach the destination you originally intended or somewhere else altogether, it will be well worth the trip.

Elizabeth M. Thurmond lives in, and often writes about, Los Angeles. She can be found on the internet at www.countmystars.com

Ensuring the Future of Creativity

2009-11-23T09:05:00.000-08:00

Today we have a guestblog from (our long-time friend) @kilotango. If you've seen Ethanael's profile picture, you've encountered Katy's artistic talent. Now, read on to see her wordsmithiness...

Ensuring the Future of Creativity

Ever since I was little, I've been surrounded by creative culture of some kind, and a lot of it has—in some way—been stories. Even aside from having a mother who devours books like candy, the traditional music scene I grew up in is rich in storytelling in both songs and spoken word. So, the idea of creating characters and worlds and plots has always been pretty close to my heart. Even though what I've published so far has been non-fiction and focused on art rather than writing, it's still been engaged with that love, hopefully empowering kids to express some of the stories that live inside their own heads.

As I've been teaching workshops over the last year or so, the importance of this idea keeps growing for me. With the swelling focus on exam results, targets and vocational skills, the joy of just indulging your own ideas seems to be getting more and more undervalued in schools. It's simultaneously wonderful and a little heartbreaking when you have to explain to a child that the character they are creating is theirs, and so of course they can give it long hair or wings or a big coat or whatever detail they want to add. Seeing the realisation click that their creation really can be however they like is great, but that they don't already know this and are instead so worried about getting things wrong seems more than a little sad.

It's not just the kids either. If the children have a parent in tow, I usually try to make them join in. More often than not, getting them to pick up a pencil will take more encouragement and more insistence that I'm starting right from the basics than I have to give to the kids. It takes hard work to be really good at anything, but that doesn't mean there's anything shameful in trying to do something new. Or in being really bad at that new thing. I hear a lot of sentences that start with "Oh, but I can't—" from adults sat in on my workshops. And maybe they're right, but really... that sentence should psychologically end with the word 'yet.'

Especially when we're dealing with something as low risk as making some marks on a sheet of paper, or spending five or ten minutes thinking up an imaginary person.

If you have that time to spare, there's not really any risk in following up on that potential skill either, especially as a child. No, not everyone who picks up a pencil or throws around words will be able to make a living from it. But creativity has a worth way beyond making you some cash. If it doesn't go anywhere... oh no. You've used some time using your brain and making something fun that you could have spent watching the X-factor. How very tragic.

Thankfully kids tend to be more willing to take that 'risk', but when school often fails to give them the outlet, that hurdle is far from as easy to jump over as it could be. Young people are much smarter and much more creative than people give them credit for, and they live in a world where they're looked on as fragile things made of glass that must be kept away from sunlight and experience at all costs, or horrible hoodie-wearing happy-slapping blights on society—and often not much in-between. Throw on the pressure to grow up in double time with plenty of shiny bits of paper to use as proof they've learned stuff, and that doesn't always leave a lot of space for healthy, imaginative expression. And that's a huge loss. A friend once told me that if you want to cut down youth crime, install a skate park and a graffiti wall in every town. I don't dissagree. I've spoken to youth workers with just the same view. Kids want to express themselves, and if we don't give them a constructive way to do it, we can't really be surprised when it explodes in other ways.

Back on the 'mercenary' note, all this talk about the Harlequin Horizons drama-storm took me a little personally as well. Not because I've had any experience with vanity publishers myself, but because a kid at one of my workshops got caught up with one. While I understand that everyone needs to make money somehow, the vanity method of preying on creators borders on the disgusting. Sure, if you were horribly cynical you could claim it was a tax on people not doing their research. But, when you're talking about convincing a young person to pay £5000 to 'publish' something they could have printed themselves for £200, with only limited editing, marketing and minimal distribution for their money, that steps into 'how do you sleep at night?' territory for me.

Unfortunately the kid that came to me for advice about what it's like to publish something had already signed the contract. They sent it to me to look at, and after how both enthusiastic and anxious they had been in our conversation, having to explain to them the nature of the company that had given them the offer was probably one of the most difficult emails I have ever written. All this would have been bad enough a few years ago, but with the amount of solid Print On Demand services out there, the fact it's not hard to get an ISBN and that some of these services will even throw your work up on Amazon for you... frankly, there's no excuse for this. Especially not when you're landing impressionable young people 5k in debt, taking a huge cut of the profit and then on top of that, taking their intellectual property rights with it.

This is not how we should be treating the people who are writing our future.

For all that anger though, there has probably never been a better time for just getting your stuff out into the public view, and in ways completely accessible for young people. No, you might not make a living out of it, but that doesn't always have to be the point. You can set up a print on demand shop for pretty much no overhead other than your own hard work on your book or comic. If you don't care about selling, you can start a blog, for free, in less time than it takes to make yourself a brew. From what I've seen, the small press scene is still thriving in comics, with new talent rising all the time, some of it from people not even out of their teens.

And this is with a large amount of the population convinced they're not creative, that they can't make things, that there's no point even trying to learn or trying to improve. Which is why when I get to teach, it's one of the most fulfilling experiences in the world. It might only be with a few people, and what they produce might not always be polished... yet. That takes work and practice and development. But potential is potential, and it's a great honour to help open that door. You never know what somebody has in their head.

Just imagine what we could see if they were all given the confidence and opportunity to share it.

Katy Coope is an author, illustrator and web designer based in the UK. She had her first book published at age 16, and her most recent, 'Making Manga Characters', came out last year as part of Collins' Big Cat series. She has a BA and an MA and runs on concentrated geekery, caffeine and spiral power.

Lessons of Game Design: Social Contracts and End-User Creativity

2009-11-20T08:14:00.000-08:00

Today we have a guestblog from John Evans, please enjoy it!

For those of you who might not know me, my name is John Evans. My father is a computer programmer, and my mother a writer and former English teacher; being raised by them gave me the benefit of several different perspectives on everything. While I've exercised my creativity through both fiction writing (not seriously enough to have anything published) and software development (seriously enough to be paid for it), the one field that has truly captured my imagination is game design.

People have spent thousands of words debating "What is a game and how do you design it?", but I'll just lay out a couple simple working definitions (along with references, for those intrigued!).

A game can consist of a whole bunch of related materials; a game can consist of artwork, scenarios, levels, prose, all sorts of auxiliary assets to improve the experience. The most important aspect, however, are the rules. Rules are instructions to the player(s). In a sense they lay out a social contract; The game designer is saying to the player, "If you follow these rules, you will have a valuable experience." Even 'valuable' could mean many different things, from 'fun' to 'engaging' to 'educational' to 'tragic' to 'cathartic.'

Stepping back for a moment, this description is actually not too different from that of any medium. One could interpret Harry Potter and the Sorc—Philosopher's Stone as being an implicit social contract; J. K. Rowling is saying, "If you read this book from beginning to end, you will have a valuable experience."

The interesting point here is that a game designer does not directly design gameplay; a game designer creates rules that they hope will guide the player into an interesting experience. Think of poker for a moment. The rules define how players assemble hands and how they bet money. But nowhere in the rules is "bluffing" defined; that's an emergent property of the game. Because game designers have to work "at a remove," and for that reason it's sometimes called "second-order design."

But then again, that's not too far off from other media. Any work, like a book, has no meaning if it's not read. One could diagram the sentences and map out the plot, but the true meaning comes when someone gets to the end of the book and says "OMG I never saw that twist coming!" An author is not creating plot twists for the sake of plot twists, an author is designing the experience they wish the reader to have.

Now for another game topic; How are rules enforced? In a computer game, the software is the sole arbiter. It's impossible to fool.

Game: You need a key to get past this gate.
Player: But the fence is only waist-high. Can't I—
Game: YOU NEED A KEY TO GET PAST THIS GATE

Games played with other players are, sometimes, slightly more flexible.

Dungeon Master: You need a key to get past this gate.
Player: But the fence is only waist-high.
Dungeon Master: The fence grows up out of the ground until it is too high to climb. And it's covered with, uh, grease.

Actually, that was a rather silly example. Here's a more serious one:

Black: Okay, I want to move my queen like a knight.
White: That's against the agreed-upon rules. You forfeit your place in this chess tournament and I get the $1000 prize.

The social contract takes on an added meaning in multiplayer games. The players assume that, by entering into the game, they all agree to follow...whatever rules have been agreed upon.

That's not to say that rules are immutable objects. How about this example:

Nought: I move in the top left square. There's only one space left for you to move, and when you do, the game is a draw.
Cross: Okay, instead of moving, I erase one of your earlier moves.
Nought: You can't do that! We didn't agree to it!
Cross: But it might be cool, huh?
Nought: Okay, let's start another game using those rules.

Aha! Two players can play tic-tac-toe with whatever rules they like, because they agree to it. There is nothing that says the rules are completely inviolable. If you break the rules of tic-tac-toe, the world doesn't end, civilization doesn't crumble. You just might have to resolve the issue with your opponent...or you might not have anyone to play with!

Now, remember when I was talking about computer games, and I said a computer is "impossible to fool"? That's a lie. A computer game is defined by a program running on a computer. The information making up that program can always be changed, creating a "modification" (or mod). Some very famous games started out as mods of other games.

Over the years of games being modified, many game developers have started building in facilities to let modders easily change the game assets or code. Modding is often encouraged, as it gives the player community something to talk about and another way to enjoy the game.

Ultimately, I believe that the creativity of the players will become more and more important in computer games. For many games, the experience of playing them is a creative act. And with mods, the players have a growing ability to pursue the type of experience they want to have. Just think of it; soon we might see a Final Fantasy game where you could skip to the end if you wanted to play through it first!

Of course, you can already do that with books.

Hmmm...

Recommended Reading

Game Design: Theory and Practice (2nd Edition), Richard Rouse III — Practical and approachable.

Rules of Play: Game Design Fundamentals by Eric Zimmerman and Katie Salen — For when you want an exhaustive textbook with careful definitions of everything to do with games.

Chaoseed Softward — Free web-based games I designed and coded!

Zombies Need Love Too — A free (but you can pay small bits of money for advantages) Facebook game I designed and coded!

Thanks very much, John. Check out his game design blog, Chaos Garden, or follow him on twitter for more tasty thought-food.

2009-11-19T12:37:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I get the impression that people believe I seek out ideas that are innovative or different.

I don't. I'm not trying to be different; what I'm doing is familiar—to me.

I've given up working out why it doesn't seem familiar to anyone else.

Maria and I bond or something

2009-11-16T16:11:00.000-08:00

Dante and Avalon excused themselves to handle the reporting of the former city of London missing. I’m left with Maria to wait for their return. We’ve retraced our route to the steps of the art museum. I can feel the cement through my jeans. Cool like my latte. Only the ceramic mug retains any lingering warmth.

I can’t remember how to make the coffee inside warm again. Stuff just happens because Matt tells it to, so I’m trying that. But the liquid is feeling wholly uncooperative. Means I’m not saying it like I mean it harm if it doesn’t obey. Or the city guardians still have wards up throughout this city to disperse powers before they make things happen. It helps maintain the order of things.

“Fine,” I say. “Don’t be warm. I’ll still drink you.”

Maria looks at me, but it’s not one of fear. Just mild concern. “Is it your fault?”

“Yes. I should have drank it sooner.”

“No.” She almost smiles. I see her mouth twitch. “Whatever happened to London. The scone seems to think you’re to blame.”

“Most people think I’m to blame for most things,” I reply. “I’m the only one of my people who can do what I do. Makes me an easy target.”

“So you can transform cities?”

“No. I can change probabilities.” I frown. “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to London. At least, I don’t remember having anything to do with it.”

I always do. Remember. Like I’m not capable of forgetting. I didn’t cause whatever happened to London. I know that. What I don’t know is why I’m telling her any of this. She thinks what I can do is relevant. I’m not so convinced.

“So that’s what a Twilight King does.” Maria rubs her feet.

Oh. We have a miscommunication. Failure of understanding. One that should be clarified.

“I’m not the Twilight King.” I try giving the mug a little hug with my hands. Maybe it just needs to feel appreciated. “That’s my brother. I’m the Twilight Prince.”

She blinks. Looks at me like she’s really seeing me. Maybe for the first time. “You’re a prince?”

“It’s not a big deal.” I shrug. “Lots of my people are.”

Vancouver people pass the museum. They’re far enough away that it doesn’t matter. They can’t hear us. Up on the steps is its own place. Part of but not part of what happens on the sidewalk.

We watch them in silence. If the mother or any of her toddler entourage think I stick out, they don’t comment. Probably because the city guardians have trained people to observe but not to notice things. Makes it almost like Vancouver was still on your side of the glass.

Mom and Tots cross the street at the corner. No Art for them. Fine by me. I don’t like young children. They seem unnatural.

“So where are you a prince of?” Maria asks. “Is Twilight the name of a city?”

Depending on when you are, you might think this is a stupid question. You might be wondering how Maria could not know that cities don’t have princes. Kingdoms do. There aren’t any kingdoms when Maria’s from.

“Twilight is the name of our tribe,” I say. “Tribes are like families you’re related to through power instead of genetics.”

She shakes her head. “This is such a weird place.”

“Where you’re from communities are where groups of people live. Here communities are those groups of people.” I abandon my mug on the step between us. “You would say ‘I’m from Emerald.’ Location is what links you and everyone else who lives there together. Mutual geography. Here you would say ‘I’m from the Beauty tribe.’ It’s the power that identifies you.”

Except it isn’t power that identifies her. Her tribe didn’t want her. She doesn’t belong to them. Doesn’t understand why this is such a bad thing. Most of the others like her, the ones who refuse to belong to anyone, are in Vancouver. They had the choice. They could have joined tribes. But, like Maria, they were too used to belonging to a place.

“Each tribe has a prince or a princess. Maybe Both. Maybe more. Depends on the tribe is.” I shrug. “Means your second-in-command to the King and Queen.”

She isn’t following. I can see it in how she’s poised, her mouth slightly open, to argue with me.

“How can you not have cities?” she settles on, finally. “Are you all nomads?”

“No. We have cities. We just don’t use them the same way.”

She’s quiet for a few heartbeats. I watch the family disappear into the distance.

“Do you think that’s what happened to London, Ethan?”

My name has changed. There’s a kindness to the way she says. Not the same as how she says Andy. But she’s finally saying Ethan like it doesn’t frighten her.

“What do you mean, Maria?” I glance at her. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. It got swallowed by the dream fields. Spat out as something else. It happens. No one’s responsible for it.”

“That’s what I mean.” She shifts on the step. Faces me. “What if London isn’t wrong—what if neglect is what caused the city to be eaten by the dream fields?”

She sits back. Crosses her arms. Looks damn pleased with herself. She deserves to. I know that places move without Old Ones and tribes to keep them in place. Never mind we couldn’t find London to keep it from becoming forgotten. History is made by those telling it. Easy-peasey for Stellina to make history include the Twilight King decreeing that the city be abandoned.

“That is exactly what happened.” I lean forward. Slip on my headphones. Listen as hard as I can. Straining for strands of Stellina’s easily recognizable refrain.

Avalon’s not wrong about us needing to speak to London. But he’s not right about us not needing to speak to Stellina. Of course, there’s a trap waiting for us wherever she is. All we can do is be aware and hope the element of surprise will better serve us.

This is twice we’ve been pointed in Stellina’s direction. Got a feeling if we don’t take the hint, we’ll see a third reminder and I’m not risking a waffle showing up.

Interrogation PT 2

2009-11-13T08:18:00.000-08:00

“London who?” Maria twists the fork again.

“London, ye cruel beastie!” The scone howls. “Big Ben, Hyde Park, The Tate, Double Decker buses. London.”

Maria eases up on the fork to look at us. “Anyone know what in the Abyss this thing’s talking about?”

Oh. Yeah. I think we do.

“London,” Avalon says. It’s not in the thoughtful tone. It’s in a slightly bewildered one. Not doubtful. He’s been here too long to doubt much of anything.

Dante looks at him. “The missing city?”

“Formerly missing from the sounds of it.” Avalon digs around in his pocket. “Also, formerly a city if we can trust what Sconey MacScone has said.”

Depending on when you’re reading this, you’re at varying levels of confusion. Some background: London is a big city in the south of a country called England. At some point in your future—or past—London vanishes. It’s not the only place. One day—possibly a Thursday—several cities around your world just aren’t there anymore. I won’t go into specifics of why or how. There’s a generally agreed upon explanation among my people that places the blame mostly on your people. Doesn’t matter. You just need to know those cities reappeared in the Twilight Lands.

Unlike Vancouver, we never found London. Except for the Chronograph. Given the evidence of mean scones and exclamation-bomb carrying pancakes, I’d say London also left the Chronograph to torment us. Obviously, the former city has transformed into a douchebag.

“Where’d you get the brilliant idea to go after Ethan?” Maria twists the fork again.

“Ow! Master was told by a lass calling herself Stellina that the Twilight King was to blame.” A whimper. “Please, I beg of ye, lassie—stop forking me.”

She looks to us. Waits. Avalon nods. She pulls the fork free and offers it to him. Accepting, he returns it to the table. Whether he wants it or not, she’s handed him the leadership of our little group. Makes sense. He’s the one with seniority. Dante hasn’t picked a vocation yet. (He’s told me there’s pressure for him to be an accountant like his father.)

“Where can we find this Stellina?” Maria asks.

“No, I’ll not tell ye that.” Sconey MacScone shudders. “I fear her far more than I fear ye.”

Maria reaches for the fork. Avalon stops her with a little shake of his head.

“Looking for Stellina doesn’t address the larger problem.” He traces something on the object he’s pulled out of his pocket. “We need to speak with London.”

“I’ll not tell ye where my master is, either.”

“You will, Sconey MacScone.” Avalon displays the small silver circle in his palm. “I’ve named you.”

A single glyph glows on the mirror. Sconey MacScone has been written above.

“Well played,” Dante says.

Yeah. I wish I’d had the resistance to exclamation marks that would’ve allowed me to think of naming the pancake. Dante would have never had to step in to save me from it later. I could have just made it drown itself in syrup.

“I don’t understand,” Maria says. “Why is naming it a big deal? I mean, how do we even know that’s what it’s called?”

“When you name something, you get power over it,” Dante explains. “Well, you do if you do it properly.”

It’s recommended you to go to school and get certified as a mirror mage first. But if you do, your parents might try to convince you to become an accountant.

Avalon indicates the mirror. “You can challenge this, if you like.”

I think the scone is sulking. It’s making discontent noises as it vibrates slightly on its plate.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dante crosses his arms. “There’s just a little life in you. It’s not enough will to counter a naming. Even the daf—dumb pancake had more.”

The plate rattles violently against the table.

Maria looks at me. “What’s going on?”

I finger my headphones. “I…really have no idea.”

It’s true. I don’t. As exciting as my life is, angry Scottish not-cakes aren’t something I see a lot. My people are a lot less silly when it comes to their means for revenge.

Dante gets a funny look on his face and grabs either of us. Pulls us away from the table. Avalon grabs his mug—it’s one of those big wide ones—and tosses what’s left inside into a nearby plant. Slams the upside down cup over the plate.

Parts of the scone don’t fit inside. They vibrate madly for another few seconds then explode. Like BOOM. Really. The plate goes skidding the table. Takes the fork with it. Maria yells. Dante grabs her. We duck. Shield our eyes. A cranberry scores a trail of gunky red across my hand.

When the crumbs settle, there’s a cranberry splattered against the nearby wall. Shards of a once-plate and crumbs strew the floor like limbs. Another berry-shrapnel is embedded in the counter.

The barista doesn’t meet my eyes as he walks over. He’s got a broom. And the frown of someone doing everything he can to keep his temper so he doesn’t lose his job.

“I think it’s time you left, sir,” he says to Avalon.

Avalon’s turn to frown. Not at the sir. It looks like a cranberry is smeared across his jacket.

“Of course,” he says. I’m not sure if he’s talking to the barista, but the barista nods and looks satisfied. Avalon’s jacket says nothing.

Dante and Maria untangle from each other. There’s a general lack of blushing. My respect for her increases. Not only is she mean with a fork, she knows the difference between survival and snuggling.

“What happened?” she asks, as the barista leaves. “I mean, I get that the scone thing exploded. But why? Because it wouldn’t do what you told it to?”

“No.” Dante picks crumbs out of his hair. “It was destroyed from afar. There must have been a link to his creator. London was using the scone for surveillance.”

She gives him a look that says and you know this how?

“The plate rattling. Power built up. Overloaded the scone.” He flicks the crumb on the floor. “A vassal that simple can’t hold a great deal of power.”

“Should that be possible?” I ask Avalon. “Since when could former places create things?”

He shrugs. “Last I checked, possible didn’t have a lot of sway once the dream fields were involved.”

The barista clears his throat. In that way meant to assert authority. It doesn’t mean anything. If he thinks we’re city guardians, he knows he can’t really make us leave. Not if we don’t want to. But if we were city guardians, we wouldn’t risk making him feel uncomfortable by staying.

Avalon lifts the mug that’s managed to remain upright on the table. Sniffs it. Pushes it into my hands.

“I don’t see any crumbs in it,” he says. “Finish your latte.”

I point to the mug and give the barista an authoritative look. “I’m taking this with me.”

He sighs. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Thanks.” Dante smiles at him. Guides Maria toward the door with a hand. “We’ll be going now.”

“I’m keeping it, too,” I mutter. Sip my lukewarm sweet caffeine.

“You tell him, E,” Avalon says. Real quiet. So the barista doesn’t actually hear. Neither does Dante.

We leave through the glass doors. Go out into the street. I hear bicycle bells in the distance. Talking. The metallic clack of gates opening. Robson’s no longer asleep.

I don’t think Stellina is as involved in this as Sconey MacScone would have us believe. I know she didn’t send the pancake that claimed to be delivering her message. I can’t doubt she’d tell the former city of London to seek vengeance against the Twilight King. It’s absolutely something she would do, but her harmonies didn’t accompany the pancake attack. Someone’s trying to put the blame on her.

A little while ago for me—again, I don’t know when it was for you—Stellina was involved in something sneaky. She had a deal go bad on her. It’s part of what made Maria Not Right. Why Val isn’t here and Avalon is. How Dante knows about Oliver. Now, it appears it’s also the reason why I was assaulted by my breakfast.

All these threads getting tangled together might make you think of words like Fate and Destiny. I get that. Trufax: There’s a wannabe puppet-master at work here. But let’s not flatter her. This isn’t destiny. She’s working probabilities and people same as I do. Maybe I can’t spin right now, but when I get my rhythms back she is going to get a beat smackdown so big she won’t be able to escape its echoes.

Teach her to ruin pancakes for me.

“So.” Dante tucks his hands in his pockets. “How do we find the former city of London?”

“Simple.” Avalon slips on his jacket. “We report it missing.”

Congratulations to Rachel Olivier

2009-11-09T09:42:00.000-08:00

Dear old friend Rachel V Olivier has announced the release of her holiday romance The Holly and The Ivan from Drollerie Press.

You can read an excerpt here and buy the eBook here.

Interrogation PT 1

2009-11-04T08:24:00.000-08:00

The scone hesitates. It must be hesitating, because it isn’t talking. Maybe it’s collecting its thoughts. Not that scones have minds to keep thoughts in, but biology isn’t an exact science where I’m from. We’ve got a lot of things here that shouldn’t logically exist. It’s what happens when you let a bunch of people who can create anything they can think of create anything they can think of.

It didn’t used to be this way. When my parents were alive, there were rules. Laws. The Justice tribe enforced those laws. But that was back before the war. And the other war. There aren’t very many of my people left. Those that remain are scattered. My brother might be King, but there’s no real authority to his title.

I drink my latte. It’s sweet. Fake maple trying too hard to taste real. I don’t care. Between the sweet and the caffeine, I have to hope one of them can turn the master volume up on the probabilities.

“If we’re just going to stare at that thing,” Maria says, “can I eat half of it?”

Avalon smiles. “Sure.”

Maria smiles, too, because it’s hard not to smile when Avalon smiles at you. She reaches for the scone and it lurches on its plate.

“Back, lassie, or I’ll bite ye fingers off!” It wobbles in a threatening manner. “You cannae be eatin’ me if ye wants to know the truth of who pursues you.”

“No one pursues me,” she says. “They’re after Ethan.”

Avalon shoots her a cautionary glance. Guess he hasn’t worked out that she’s new to all this. He should be able to feel that there’s something Not Right about her. Or not. If he just woke up, he’ll be a little groggy. It would explain why he’s hiding out in Vancouver.

“Aye,” the scone says. “For the wee Twilight laddie has offended my great master.”

That doesn’t narrow it down. I’ve lost track of how many people consider themselves offended by something I’ve done. It’s a long list. Not as long as the list of people my brother’s offended. But he has a talent for saying things that send tempers flaring. Not so much doing things. He sort of stopped with doing and focused more on the saying after something he did do he really upset Avalon.

“How so?” Dante asks as he slides into a chair next to me. Places a muffin before a grateful Maria.

“My master was gobbled up by those accursed lands,” the scone says. “And awoke as something else.”

Dante looks at me. I shrug. Avalon rubs a finger against one of his black marks. All three of us trying to find a way to say what should be obvious: I don’t control the dream fields. My brother can when he bothers to make the effort. He doesn’t bother that often anymore. Mostly the fields roam free and do whatever they please. It keeps them happy. Fine by us. When they’re happy, they’re more likely to let us pass through them unharmed.

There used to be people who tended the fields. Dream herders, we called them. I’ve heard that there are still dream herders, but I’ve never met one. Matt and I do a bit of dream tending at the house. We’ve got a little shed that’s bigger on the inside. More than big enough. After all, the dreams kept in it are little ideas. Out in the fields are the big ones. Old enough to have matured into entire worlds. It takes a different kind of person to master their territory. See to their needs.

“And?” I cross my arms. “What does your ‘great master’ want me to do about it?”

“Your neglect caused this transformation.” The scone spits a shriveled little ball of fruit onto the plate.

“Gross.” Maria makes a face and swallows. “Is that blood?”

“I believe it’s a cranberry,” Avalon says. “Which is equally unpleasant.”

“Don’t you mock me,” The scone warns. “I’ll aim the next one at your throat, traitor.”

His fingers move for the fork, but Dante grabs it first. He’s got sisters. He’s used to pre-empting violence.

“Traitor?” Maria reaches for her mocha to wash down the muffin. “Don’t you think you’re over reacting? Way more people than just him eat things like you.”

The scone declines to answer.

It doesn’t escape my notice that she’s very comfortable referring to Avalon as people. Not because we gave her that talking to about calling Old Ones vampires or fairies or Cthulhu. Wait. Maybe we didn’t. Maybe I just told you. Factoring that in, she probably just wants to make kissy faces with Avalon. Looks like the type who likes older guys. Maria. Not Avalon. He likes older women.

Dante gestures for me to lean closer. Maria shouldn’t complain about us whispering. She’s got Avalon to keep her occupied.

“You know what this means?” Dante asks me.

“Maria might have a crush on Avalon?”

“Ha ha.” He doesn’t actually think it’s funny. “Whoever’s manipulating the scone must have sent the pancake. You said the pancake was the me kind of silent, after all, and only one of my people would call my uncle a traitor.”

“Not really, Andy. There are a lot of my people who share that sentiment.”

He looks puzzled. “But he—”

I shake my head. “But nothing. He came from Over There.”

“My master’s been told all about ye,” the scone continues. “How ye abandoned your family. How ye cannae be trusted.”

“Abandoned my family.” Avalon says it in that slow, thoughtful way that reminds me more of the King of Judgment. Like he’s carefully considering the matter. Deciding which way to rule on it. When he does, it’ll be game over. You don’t argue with the King of Judgment. It’s like arguing with Death. No matter what you say, you’re staying dead.

Unless you’re a zombie. Avalon does not like zombies. He says they make a terrible mess.

“Aye.” The scone spits another cranberry on the plate. Maria’s right. It does look like congealed blood. Definitely unpleasant.

“Master,” Dante whispers to me. “That makes it fairly easy. Not a lot of masters back home.”

He’s calm again. I can hear it in how he’s keeping his accent hidden. Good. I’m cranky. The not-cake is spitting cranberries and insults at Avalon. We need someone who’s able to diffuse the situation. Not really fair it always has to be Dante, but that’s what he gets for being so dependably rational for most of today. Tomorrow someone else can take over.

“Well.” Avalon leans against his chair and crosses his arms. “You haven’t told us a bloody thing we didn’t already know. I don’t see a reason not to eat you.”

He looks at Maria.

“I’m not really hungry anymore,” she says. “That muffin took the edge off.”

Obviously it’s her first time at the interrogation rodeo.

“This is a really good mocha,” she adds. “If it sucked, I’d totally let you dunk that scone thingie in it.”

“Thanks.” Avalon reaches for his tea.

The scone makes a threatening noise. Or as threatening of a noise as a scone can make. It sounds mostly like it’s about to huck another cranberry.

Dante surprises us all when he casually breaks off one of the scone’s corners. I had no idea coffee had that effect on him. Must remember this for later. Caffeine + Dante = Kick-starting the Revolution. Or possibly just violence. Either probability is good to know about.

The scone is so stunned it takes it a few seconds to realize what’s happened. Then it lets out a little war cry and spits a cranberry at Dante. Hits him in the cheek hard enough to leave a mark. Or at least part of the mushy berry.

Maria spears the scone with the fork. Jabs it right into the center of the pastry. The plate rattling and howling stops.

“That was not cool,” she says. “We had a deal. You told us who sent you, and we only ate half of you. You weren’t telling anything we didn’t already know.”

Ok, I take it back. Maria catches on fast. She’ll fit in great with my people.

“Now.” Maria twists the fork a little. “You tell us a name. Or I’m going to start breaking you into bite-size pieces so we can all eat you.”

The scone whimpers in pain.

Avalon meets my gaze. His definitely says bloody hell, Ethan, where did you find this psycho? I shrug. We tend to forget the lesson of those serrated flower petals: Beauty is often hiding something bloodthirsty.

“All right! All right!” The scone somehow looks defeated. It could be the way little pieces are crumbling off its broken end. “I’ll give ye a name: London.”

NaNo Traveling Tips

2009-11-01T15:13:00.000-08:00

For the past few months (or year) my life has felt a lot like this picture. Sitting at a red light, waiting to cross from Hope to something more tangible. Fuel in the tank, the road clear ahead, but unable to get there because of a traffic signal.

That’s the frustrating thing about red lights. Why we dislike them. Why some of us would rather run them and risk an accident than have to sit and wait for the light to change. Change is fickle. It comes uninvited, when we’re least prepared to host it—yet we hate waiting for it to arrive.

All this time, my thoughts were filled with where I planned to be. Peace is hard to come by when all you hear is a voice whispering that you’re late. You should have been at this point by now. You would have been if you’d done this or not done that.

What does this have to do with NaNoWriMo? Everything. You see, NaNoWriMo focuses on the notion that 1667 (or 1666.66666666... to be exact) words a day for 30 days can produce a manuscript. It is when those of us who say I could do that, put it to the test. For a month, we all become novelists. Alchemists turning ideas into stories. Kings and Queens of Inspiration.

Why not? November, my friends, is a time for grand gestures. A month when the Great War ended. When it seems possible for our little wars against lack of motivation, fear, doubt, and excuses to end, too. In November, through our grand gestures, we can create peace. We can stop focusing on the red light, and instead see that this is a one way street. The only way to change direction is to turn off. Give up. Take ourselves out of the game.

Sure, there are more lights ahead. But they’re ahead. We’re here. Now. This moment.

People always say I’m having a moment like it’s a bad thing. Really, it’s not. I hope you all have moments this month where you find yourself smiling for no reason other than you love what you’re doing. Moments of brilliance, clarity and accomplishment. Moments when time ceases to exist and the “magic” happens.

I hope you have those every month.

Even if you never arrive at 50,000 words, you’ll still learn how make time for the words you do write. You may even come to realize where you are is more important than where you’ve been or where you’re going.

Enjoy the ride. Keep your eyes open. As our Ethanael is fond of saying: There is no getting lost. There are only unscheduled side trips.

Godspeed.

Blenz Pt 2

2009-10-26T09:04:00.000-07:00

“Oh there be the wee Twilight laddie,” a cranky voice says.

I am not turning around. We will just go find another coffee shop. This is Robson. There are many.

“Look, I don’t know what you two are on,” Barista says, “but we’ve got other customers and you can’t be bothering them, ok?”

I glance toward the only other customer. He’s lifted his gaze from whatever had his attention and gives me one of those O RLY? looks. Then his violet gaze moves from me to the counter. He raises an eyebrow. Reaches for his hood.

“Don’t be ignoring me, laddie.” The scone rattles on its plate. I’m slightly disturbed by the fact that it doesn’t even have a mouth. It’s got a voice that comes from somewhere inside. Food shouldn’t have talky faces, but food definitely shouldn’t talk without a face.

“Stop that,” the barista says.

“He’s not doing it,” Maria says. “I mean, I don’t think he is.”

Her faith in me is so comforting.

A chair pushes back softly, as the only other customer stands. “Ventriloquism isn’t one of Ethan’s skills.”

Maria looks at him. Interested. Maybe even trusting. Until her eyes land on those black facial markings. She doesn’t even know what they mean. She can’t. Doesn’t matter. There’s some lizard-monkey-bird-deep-old part of her brain that has some inkling of what he is. I know, because her frozen oh of surprise is the same expression she gave when Dante took off his goggles.

There are things you see without your eyes. Longer you spend in the Twilight Lands, the more obvious those things become.

Avalon is a perfect example. He disarms people. He has less Hope in him than Dante does, but more than enough to be dangerous. Avalon smiles not like you can trust him, not like you should trust him, but like you’d be stupid not to trust him. You do trust him. You just can’t shake the feeling that doing so is going to get you in trouble.

If you’ve heard of my friend Valentine, this all probably sounds familiar. But it’s not Val in the coffee shop. He’s the namesake. This is the original. The first. Valentine Avalon.

I’d like a moment of privacy with Avalon to express our mutual delight in seeing each other again in a manly fashion. Fist-bumps and appropriate exchanges of dude and maybe a one-armed hug. Like brothers who aren’t really brothers greet each other. You know. But you were probably thinking something else. Something naughty.

Howev, there will be no reunion ritual of not-really-brothers-brotherhood. Maria and the barista and an angry-sounding scone are sort of in the way. So I’ll just tell you: I am glad to see Avalon. Mostly because I’ve gotten to see him first. Before Dante did. Ha.

I start smiling. Forming the words of hey long time no see when the scone throws itself against my head. Let me tell you something about scones. They are dense. The kind of dense that hurts. I’m not proud of it, but I wobbled a little after it hit me.

The barista reacted in a very professional manner by screaming “Ahh! What the fu—” as he dived behind the counter. Maria just stared. Apparently self-animated bread products aren’t as worrying as rolling changes. Or she thinks I’m not as fragile as Dante. Maybe. Maybe not. What I am is wobbling away from the counter, clutching my head and trying not to tell the scone just what I think of being hit by a loudmouth Scottish not-cake.

Avalon handles it. He’s very good at handling things. The scone does another lunge and Avalon seizes it. Just grabs it like everyone should know how to grab baked goods in mid-flight. Swiping a fork from a bin on the counter, he jabs the scone.

The scone screams a yeast-less shriek of pain and says something extremely unkind and very presupposing about Avalon’s mother. Avalon doesn’t so much as flinch. The dude’s hunted werewolves and vampires and all sorts of things that aren’t supposed to exist. A foul-mouthed scone doesn’t even register on his threat-o-meter. Trust me.

He just gives the barista a very calm look. “I don’t suppose you have any jam?”

The scone goes very still. “You wouldn’t.”

“Aye, I would.”

“He totally would,” I add. “Wouldn’t he, Maria?”

“Probably. I don’t know.” She shakes her head then looks at the barista. “Can I get that mocha?”

“Obviously it wants to be eaten.” Avalon smiles. “Why else would it be throwing itself at us?”

“I’m so hungry I would eat it without any jam,” I say. My stomach growls. I’m not sure it’s in agreement.

“No, you cannae eat me!” The scone shakes in Avalon’s grip. “We can make a deal.”

“I’m not in the habit of bargaining with baked goods.” Avalon glances at me. “If it’s going to be so rude, we ought to just throw it in the bin.”

“I will tell ye who sent me!” The scone says.

“That would be rather helpful.”

“If I tell ye, will ye only eat half o’ me?”

“We’ll consider it,” I say.

The scone shudders again. “Ye drive a hard bargain, laddie.”

Avalon smiles like it’s just like before. It kind of is. Except we never fought pastries before. The vicious food items is definitely a now thing.

“Is this—it is—” The barista peeks up from behind the counter at Avalon. “You know. One of those things I’m supposed to report to the guardians.”

“No need,” Avalon says. “We’ve got this.”

The barista swallows. Studies Avalon. Draws some sort of conclusion. Nods.

“They had drinks.” Avalon smiles at the barista. “A very large mocha and a maple latte macchiato, I believe.”

Having been to Vancouver with Avalon before, I know this is going to go one of two ways. Way One: Mr. Barista decides we’re with the city guardians and he should be business as if a scone didn’t just attack one of us. Way Two: Mr. Barista decides we’re exactly the kind of things he needs to report to the guardians.

I’m hoping it’s Way One. I need the caffeine.

“Right.” The barista gets to his feet. “Any chance those could be to go, sir?”

Here’s some more advice for if you ever find yourself in the Twilight Lands: Don’t address Avalon as sir. There are people who you can. Dante’s dad, for example. You call him sir. He might insist that you do. Not Avalon. Sir makes him feel old.

“No.” Avalon doesn’t lose his smile. “We’ll be staying.”

I think the barista swears. Not out loud. Not under his breath. With his inside voice. Avalon ignores him. Keeps the scone tight in one fist. Goes over to the window and knocks the knuckles of his free hand against the glass.

It must be to get Dante’s attention. Avalon waves a little. Gestures for Dante to join us inside.

“I’ve got a table.” Avalon nods his head to where he’d been sitting.

The scone has been strangely silent. I’d like to think it’s scared into behaving like a normal breakfast item. I’m not so sure. Because hungry as I am—and my head really hurts—I’m not sure how I feel about eating any portion of something that’s talking. Jam or no jam.

Maria’s watching me rub my head.

“You ok?” she asks.

“Yeah. Sorry,” I mumble. Make my way to Avalon’s table. “This is a stranger than usual Thursday.”

Maria shrugs and follows. “I sort of gave up on things being normal.”

“Probably for the best, that,” Avalon says.

“This is your friend.” Maria lowers her voice. “The one who’s supposed to be able to help.”

I nod.

“Is he related to Andy?” she asks. “There’s sort of a resemblance.”

I nod again.

She gives me a frustrated look. “Does he have a name?”

“Avalon,” I say.

“Avalon?” She looks like she might laugh. “What kind of name is that?”

I don’t tell her: The kind that makes even the most valiant of my people lower their voices and look over their shoulders. I just shrug. Let her assign meaning to it.

Cool air moves through the coffee shop as Dante opens the door and joins us. He pockets the compass as the barista places our drinks on the hand off. The disturbance with the scone distracted from the fact that I didn’t pay for anything. Hopefully Dante doesn’t remind anyone.

We sit at the table. Dante delivers our drinks with a smile to Maria and a nod to his auburn-haired uncle. Avalon returns the nod. Then Dante’s gone again—probably to fetch Maria’s forgotten muffin and get his own cup of coffee.

Avalon carefully places the scone on the table before us. He removes the fork but keeps it close at hand.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s have us that wee chat, yeah?”

Blenz Pt 1

2009-10-23T17:38:00.000-07:00

Decisions. Decisions. We fight throughout childhood to assert we’re adults and that means we get to make our own. When you’re the last child of a dying people, you fight that much harder for that much longer. Because once I’m widely accepted as an adult then it really is all over for us.

Dante hasn’t noticed Maria’s gone. Compass has him enthralled. His people are very big on how things work. Especially him. He’s got a need to fix things. Loves to take them apart and try to put them back together better. Gets it from his Dad. Yeah. The accountant. That Dante’s so thrilled by a new tool is a good sign. He might be balancing. Fading out the Hope. If he’s resyncing…

I slide my headphones on. Listen. I know. Maria doesn’t sound right. Finding her would be hard even if I was back to how I should be—and I’m not. Nope. But Vancouver is a city of songs. A city filled with people who do sound like they should. Finding discord among all that harmony is so much easier than finding it among the wilds of the dream fields. Just like it should be easier to find Avalon’s familiar rhythm of silence.

Oh. So that’s what Dante was getting at. Sometimes I wonder where his insights come from. One of these times I’ll ask him. Just not this one.

Maria’s incomplete scales are lost among all the complete ones. I think I hear her echoes, but it’s too faint and… Well, it’s sort of unnecessary. I can see her distinctly green dress through a window behind us. She may not have fled. Or maybe she did and she’s just really bad at it.

A cup with little wavy lines to indicate its contents are hot is in a circular emblem on the doors of the shop. I was wrong. Not everything is closed. Maria’s just found one of the few things that would have a reason to be open when it’s early.

“You want a coffee?” I ask Dante. Maria slips behind the part of the shop’s exterior that’s stacked blocks of grey something.

“Depends.” He takes a step toward crossing Bute. “Is it really coffee? Or is it one of those mostly milk and flavor things you drink?”

“I’m hungry. I need caffeine.” I jerk my thumb at the shop. “I’ll be inside.”

“Ethan.” He looks up from the compass. “Do you have any money?”

He has to be resyncing. Only Normal Dante would think to ask if I had a way to pay for coffee and not notice that Maria isn’t beside me.

“Find Avalon.” I roll my shoulders. My headphones knock against my collarbones. “Don’t worry about me.”

He nods. Goes back to frowning over the compass. Avalon shouldn’t be this hard to find. There must be a guardian nearby. They’d be the only thing that might throw Dante off. Confuse the signals. Or whatever it is he picks up on. Unless he’s having as much trouble as I am.

I hope Avalon knows how to get us back to normal. He is, after all, a wealth of obscure information. Sometimes obscure useless information.

I shove against the door. Pointlessly. Did Maria secure it behind her? Oh no. Wait. It just pulls open. Like it says on that little sign there. Stupid non-intuitive door.

Inside the shop smells of coffee. Warmth presses against my neck and face. Tries to seep in between my sleeves and gloves. I didn’t think it was “cold” outside, but interior temperatures must be how Vancouver tracks seasons.

Someone in a black polo shirt starts to call hello, but the word cuts off halfway. Brown eyes widened a little, as the blood drains from his face. Still, even faded he has more color than me. Leaving me to wonder if I’ve been to this coffee place before. Avalon has warned me that I make quite the impression. Apparently.

I pretend to study the menu as I scan the place. A guy in a hooded sweatshirt, his hood up, is bent over something at a table at the far end of the shop. Something sits in a cup beside him. A blazer-style jacket hangs off the back of his chair.

Maria is nowhere to be seen. But I hear the sound of flushing from the direction of the bathrooms. Ok. So she may not have been making an escape. She might have just had to pee.

“I’d like a Maple Latte Macchiato,” I tell the barista with Wide Brown Eyes. “Please.”

Avalon has expressed it’s important to say please and thank you. Like my being polite somehow makes me easier for people to handle. Oh noes, don’t let the purple hair worry you—I’m really gosh darn nice if you get to know me.

You know better. I’ve been honest with you. I’m rarely nice. It’s not a dominant trait of my genetics.

The barista nods and rings this up, as the door to the bathroom opens. Maria steps cautiously out.

“Is that everything?” The barista asks.

“No.” I point to the pastry case. “I’d like one of those scone thingies, too, and whatever she’s having.”

Maria freezes at the she. Like she thought I hadn’t noticed her and she could just slip out the door behind me. The barista looks at her then at me. Shrugs. Normally people with me get more of a WTF no really why? kind of look, but Maria is dressed like the kind of individual who belongs with someone like me.

“What are you doing, Ethan?” she hisses.

“Breakfast,” I reply. “Andy wasn’t hungry, remember?”

She gives me a suspicious look then glances at the menu. “A mocha. A big one. And one of those muffins.”

I disapprove of muffins. They’re tricksters. Make you think you’re going to get a cake, but you get something that isn’t cake instead. Mean mean muffins. No point telling Maria this. She obviously disagrees.

The barista puts my scone on a plate. Goes to get a muffin for Maria. To her credit, she hasn’t asked how I intend to pay for this. Doubt it’s faith in me holding her tongue. She probably hasn’t considered that I wouldn’t have money. Your people rarely go anywhere without it.

“Thanks,” she mumbles to me.

“You’re welcome,” I say. “We can talk shoes after I get caffeine in me.”

Creation is not a simple wiggle your nose, snap your fingers kind of task. It takes concentration. Focus. Visualization. Caffeine helps the process. Really. Matt swears by it. He also tends to swear at people before he’s gotten it. I completely understand why now. Creation is a total bitch.

Maria’s eyes widen. “Did you see that?”

No. I was looking at her. “See what?”

She points to the counter. “Your cake thingie moved.”

I sigh. Breakfast has been cursed. Again. Fan-freakin-tastic.

Why I'm Glad I'm Not Margaret Atwood

2009-10-20T23:53:00.000-07:00

Being a literati sounds like the glam A-list kind of life. Drinking, cursing, living off the ambrosia of having everyone discuss how amazing your work is. I mean, who wouldn’t want that constant ego-kiss? Plus the knowledge that children for generations will be forced to read your words in class and squeeze the enjoyment out of them until there’s nothing but theme left. Awesome. Sign us all up, right?

Whoa. Not so fast, aspiring writers. You’ve forgotten an important thing. Before you can be a literati, you must forsake all worldly goods and turn your back on wealth. For a literati is an Artist, and all True Artists must take a Bohemian vow of poverty. It’s in the literati contract.*

Let me tell you something about the Bohemian vow of poverty: It’s Romantic, but it’s not romantic at all. It’s hard and it sucks. Big time. Most importantly: It’s not going to make you a better writer.

As someone who’s (gratefully) been nominated for a literary award and had her work studied at the post-secondary level, I have to tell you that I don’t see the appeal of the literati. I mean, sure, the ego-kiss is amazing—but so is the rush of writing THE END at a manuscript or having a reader tell you how much they love a character and how they laughed out loud while reading. Having not actually won said award, I can’t comment on that moment—but I doubt it feels as validating as paying a bill with a cheque that came from writing you did.

If I were to become a literati I’d have to spend a lot of time defending my work. I’d have to constantly assert that it isn’t this genre or that genre. That it’s really all about this message and that theme. How I was influenced by this Great Writer, and that I bled my soul out onto the keyboard so I could share some Truth with you.

For example, it must be exhausting to be Margaret Atwood. She only had five years to produce her latest novel,** and she can’t even do a simple interview without having to explain to laypeople—like wired.com readers—the difference between speculative and science fiction.***

Forget that. I’m a busy woman. I’ve got adventures to have. Stories to tell. A List of how Gurren Lagann taught me all I need to know about writing to make. (Tick.)

So here’s a radical notion: Join me, fellow writers, and embrace the freedom of irrelevancy we non-literati have. I know, I know. It’s a scary notion. We’re taught as wee writers in our English classes that the greatest thing we can hope to achieve is to be one of the elite. Those whose words are of such profundity that they live on for centuries.

I realize I’m a product of my disposable culture, but why should I worry about what someone in 2109 thinks about my writing? Am I going to be there to tell Professor EduBot to STFU? Nope. Wouldn’t it be better to concentrate on my words connecting with someone now?

As for bleeding some Truth out onto the keyboard: We have no objective reason to believe literature equals better and more meaningful. Good is subjective. Meaningful is subjective.

Writing isn’t just about theme. It isn’t just about plot. Writing is an expression of the unapologetically optimistic belief that what you have to say is worthy of communication. For works to qualify as such, we should evaluate them based on their relevancy to our lives. This doesn’t, btw, exclude what the masses call “literature.” It just asserts that the choice is an individual, personal one. Maybe you choose Atwood and Ondaatje or Cohen and Kogawa. Maybe you choose De Lint and Sawyer or Huff and Armstrong.

I don’t want to give you the impression that I don’t like Margaret Atwood. I have read and enjoyed her work, but I don’t seek it out or get excited when I see it on a shelf. While I appreciate what she and other feminists have done for my generation, I believe their movement’s ultimate goal was equality. The literati exist through a perceived sense of inequality.

If your heart is set on joining the literati, then it is not for me to tell you no. Just consider how our society is moving to an increasingly text-based culture. She with the greatest vocabulary won’t triumph in the digital age. She with the most accessible message**** will.

<3

*Right below the oath to get an English degree, because as you can’t be an Important Writer without one.

** To be fair, she spent some of that time inventing a pen so she wouldn’t have to physically interact with her readers to sign novels for them. She is aged enough for this to be a reasonable idea.

*** By her imaginative definition, btw, I’m a science fiction writer.

**** In 140 characters or less.

Cotton and China

2009-10-19T12:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Agent M,

Like half of most couples, I forgot our anniversary. Sorry, I didn't write it down. I did send you that outline for the steampunk manuscript, which you may or may not have received. Mercury Retrograde and all that. (This also explains why I spent the majority of last week thinking that there was some significant milestone that I was forgetting.)

We've both been busy. It's true. In the past year:

• We've gone out on submission with THE TALE OF ARIAKE, my first adult manuscript.
• We've revised and gone on submission with FRAGMENTS, my first young adult manuscript.
• We're revising SHARDS, the second of that YA series.
• We've talked about a third project—and you didn't treat me like I was crazy when I pitched it, despite that it is a somewhat crazy proposal.
• We've seen the release of the title from our first negotiated contract The Tarot Cafe Novel: The Wild Hunt.

That's just what you've been doing with me. Your other clients have been working hard, too.

Of course, these aren't the only reasons that I adore working with you, Dear M. There are all those little things, like how you can translate the dialect of English I write into things other people can understand. Or how you can sound optimistic when I can't. How when I answer how I'm doing with "Neil Gaiman signed my book!" you understand it means "I'm fan-freakin-tastic." How you just laugh when I ~~nick things from~~ am inspired by Doctor Who. Oh, and you recommended Cory Doctorow's Little Brother to me, which resulted in some serious book love. (Did I tell you I met him at WorldCon? He is so cool.)

Plus, you've been doing this for free for the past year. It hasn't been easy on me, and I appreciate that you've stuck it out through the passes and the silence. It means so much to have someone else consenting to my reality.

So here's to another year and everything that it'll bring to us.
xo xo
Chandra

PS Is it Barbara who always seems to answer the agency's phone? I should really send her a holiday card, too.

Robson and Bute

2009-10-18T18:07:00.000-07:00

Robson is shops, neon, steel and glass. Cuts through the visible heart of Vancouver. A Known street, a street that burns brightest in the fading memories of the people here. Like Stanley Park. Which isn't a street, but you know what I mean. If you don't, just smile and nod. We've got places to go. Avalons to find.

Before the city vanished, before it was dream field property, film crews and location scouts dressed Vancouver up as other places. Had it play a game of make-believe. Stay still and be Kansas. Boston. An undisclosed American future. Beneath it all, Vancouver remained Vancouver. We have a lot in common, this city and I. We're both gamers.

When you get gamers together, you get a game. I don't know yet which one Vancouver is playing with me.

Downtown is soaring modern among solid stone history. Reminds me of the Lost District in Emerald. Maybe Maria's thinking the same thing. Maybe not. She doesn't seem the type to spend time there. Have spent.

Dante's right: I think about her like she's a temporary visitor.

Didn't have that problem with Avalon. Soon as he went silent, I knew he wasn't going anywhere. Except Over There. Which he did. For a while. Until he came back to us. When he did, we made him sleep. He's not sleeping anymore. He's here. Well, not with me. Not yet. But he is somewhere in the city. Dante's sure of it, and Dante's someone you can trust. He doesn't game. Doesn't frame his words to suit what he wants you to see. Or he just doesn't do it as deliberately as I do.

So he leads. We follow.

I can't see the glass cage of the shopping center anymore. I can't even see the grey stone building of columns and steps that obscured the way we came. It was some kind of art museum. We're blocks past it and the other illusions of open space. Shops crowd us. They line the street expectantly. Waiting. Like they know something we don't.

I can guess they know we shouldn't be here. Not now in the slumbering quiet. The kind not so easily broken. This isn't your world’s city quiet. Not fragile like snowflake and spun glass. This silence dreams. Shapeless ones that press against me as they pass. I itch. The part of me that's Creation longs to form things. Give substance to thought. Ideas. Nightmares.

Creation is restless. It paces. It doesn't like being caged. Wants to run. So do I. Instead I play follow the leader. Ignore the urge to provide a reason for Dante to move his feet faster.

"We're close." He searches the street. "Anything, Ethan?"

I shake my head. It's pointless trying. The music's almost gone—smothered by my Creation side. Headphones hanging around my neck, I'm hearing all sorts of other things I don't usually. Our shoes against the sidewalk. Maria sucking air in through her teeth. The restless pounding of my pulse.

I always wondered what I'd be like without the music. No harmonies or auditory cues. If I'd learn humility and kindness and all those things your people sing the praises of. I don't think so. With the music quiet, with Creation in control, I'm just as self-absorbed. Maybe the likes of me isn't meant for kindness.

All I know is if I don't get the music back soon, I'll lose my mind to this silence. I'd ask you how you function surrounded by it, but you probably wonder how I function exposed to constant sound. It's easy: I read lips. When I can't see mouths, I just listen for what is most probable response.

Another street called Bute slices across Robson. Everything is divided into neat little blocks. Bites for easy consumption.

This used to be a High Street, as Avalon would call it. Lots of shopping for tourists. Vancouver doesn't get many tourists anymore. There are still shops. Some of them cater to the designated wealthy. Some are specialty. All of them are currently closed. It must be early.

Odd that we haven't seen a chronograph yet. From what I can remember, this place was strangled by them. You couldn't get more than a few blocks without seeing one. They were like those green coffee places. You know. Where the people were always wearing green. The coffee wasn’t.

"Do we know where we're going?" Maria asks.

This knowing is a very big deal for her. It's how I know she doesn't know anything at all. I'm not being fair to her. Not being kind. Not even attempting to make it sound like she's someone who deserves kindness. I'm not good at sympathy. Better at empathy. Usually. Dante is more the sympathetic one. I guess he's suffered more of the little sufferings that make pity an easier reaction.

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "We're close."

"So you said." She picks at the ribbons around her ankles. "But that doesn't answer my question."

He doesn't scowl at her like he'd scowl at me if I'd said it. He just looks apologetic.

"Wherever we need to go is close," he says.

She shakes her head.

"You don't have any shoes." I point to her feet. "That doesn't seem hygienic at all."

If you want to stop people from arguing when they're arguing to avoid admitting they want to make kissy faces with one another, you should change the subject. Say something that makes them think about something else. Like that one of them doesn't have any shoes.

"One of you finally noticed." Maria sticks her hands on her hips. "That's right, Ethan, I don't have shoes. Are you offering to carry me?"

"No, I'm offering an observation. Maybe if you were a little nicer to me I'd offer a solution."

Maybe you think saying that makes me sound like my brother. You'd be wrong. Matt would have vocalized his disdain for her as soon as they met.

"If I was nicer to you?" Her voice rises. Those city dreams scatter. Dispersed by the pitch.

"One of us has to be the adult." I shrug. "Thought girls matured faster than boys."

Her eyes go wide then narrow. Her lips press together. I can't hear her anger, but I know her expression's striking those chords.

"Enough." Dante says it in that perfectly crisp way Avalon would. It means Dante's annoyed. To the point where he's forgetting to hide his accent.

Maria and I aren't enough to push him into that territory. He must be having trouble finding Avalon. I guess asking me if I could sense anything wasn't just for conversation's sake.

"You are so self-involved, Ethan," Maria says. "We're lost in some forgotten utopia and you're just noticing that I don't have any shoes."

Nowhere in the Twilight Lands is a utopia. It's all just places. Good. Bad. Missing. I don't tell her this. Just like I don't tell her that her telling me I'm self-involved wasn't necessary. Instead, I dig in my pocket. Pull out the compass. Offer it to Dante. It's not doing me any good.

"Ta." He takes it. Lowers his voice. "Do you reckon it can pinpoint Avalon?"

"Figure out how to make it find him," I reply. "I'll be working on shoes for her."

"That'd be rather kind of you." He swings the compass this way and that. Watches the needle respond. "Oh, I see. It moves."

With that taken care of, it's my turn to mollify Maria. Only she isn't there.

All I need to know about Writing...

2009-10-14T19:13:00.000-07:00

...I learned from watching Gurren Lagann. This is for Susan Adrian and Rinda Elliott.

Keep digging. Every day. Through it all, Simon keeps doing what he’s good at. And you know what? He saves the whole freakin’ universe because of it. Who knows what you could do if you’d just keep writing.

Have a mentor*. We all know Simon wouldn’t have ever gotten above ground if it hadn’t been for the ~~insanity~~ insistence of his big bro Kamina. Same thing in writing. You need someone who’s gone before to help guide the way. (Someone who is going to drag your ass along for the ride kicking and screaming if they have to.)

Emulate those you admire. It’s totally ok. We all do it. Try on their writing styles and habits. See what fits.

Find out who you are & be true to yourself. We all have our own ways of doing things. You know/learn what works for you. Use it. Eventually you'll have to step out from the shadow of those who came before and make a stand for what you believe.

Each generation wants to revolutionize their world. You are not your parents’ fiction, but at some point you become someone else’s parents’ fiction.

We all need a reminder to kick our logic to the curb. The line between stupidity and pure genius gets blurry. Especially if you're writing speculative. A lot of the time you really won’t know if an idea’s a good one until you write it. Sometimes it only becomes a good idea because you wrote it.

You will need to be punched in the face. Accept this as part of your hero’s journey.

You will need to punch other people in the face. Just remember: There are various ways to do this that don’t involve actual physical violence.

Love makes the universe work. Write what you love. Passionately. Love the people you work with. Just don’t, y’know, love love them. It's probably considered inappropriate.

Anti-spirals just want to ruin your day. Fear/doubt plagues us all, no matter what our experience level is. There are people who will prey on your fears and feed your doubts. You can either listen to these people or you can do the smart thing: Throw galaxies at them!

Every leader needs a team. Keep those who support you near. Remember they are vital to your success so treat them well. They depend on you, too.

Who the hell do you think we are? Confidence. Become a force to be reckoned with. God help the idiot who gets between you and your goals.

Things are better when you combine them. Your writing gets better when you combine your efforts with the efforts of those around you. From your beta readers/critique partners to your editor and copy-editor. Feedback is there for your manuscript’s benefit. Use it.

Someone will think your cooking is delicious, Nia-chan. We all have different tastes. You will not suit everyone’s palate, and that’s ok as long as you suit someone’s.

You serve the story. What you want is secondary to what it needs.

Give it all you've got! Why "save" things for a future book? Hold nothing back. Free up the space in your head for more ideas. Better ones. You want that future book to ever see the light of day? Then write the hell out of your present manuscript.

Keep going up. Constantly work at improving your craft. Challenge yourself. Never settle. Be good, but keep aiming for better. Remember what Liz says: Yours is the pen that will pierce the heavens.

*A mentor is different, btw, than a role model. A role model is someone you admire and emulate but may never have any kind of acquaintanceship with. A mentor is an accessible professional who you feel comfortable asking for advice (with a relative certainty that you’ll get a response.)

I have no doubt forgotten other essential lessons that Gurren Lagann teaches us, so I appeal to the Webmind. Got a suggestion? Put it in the comments and we shall do some manly combining to create a list that no beastman can defeat.

2009-10-14T18:46:00.000-07:00

Rachel Vincent has announced a deal with her publisher to add two more Soul Screamers titles to her young adult series about bean sidhe and two books in a new adult venture. While Vincent isn't discussing what those adults books will be about, beyond not being Shifters novels, I do recall a mysterious Book On Spec and Book On Spec Sequel that she had written previously...

Uh oh. Look at me starting rumors. ;P

2009-10-13T16:12:00.001-07:00

I was going to do a post about my trip. What I've been up to recently. The brilliant ideas that come to me when I'm in airports.

However, I read in Wired that if we're happy, it makes people around us happy and by having happy friends we're happy. Happiness is contagious. They have validated this with SCIENCE!, so instead of doing any of those other things I'm going to post a photo of my adorable plotbunny Topher. He makes me happy and therefore he makes my friends happy, too.

Hope speaks or Hope CONT PT 2 & ETC

2009-10-06T21:34:00.000-07:00

Hope is one of those powers that everyone instinctively likes. Beauty shines but Hope glows. Lights up a room. Hope is like Inspiration that can only be directed to good. If you meet someone who has charisma but doesn't seem to realize it, someone who leaves you feeling like anything is possible and it's just out there waiting for you, then you probably met one of the Hopes. They're the few of Dante's people who make an effort to spend time among your people.

Gandhi. Bradbury. Obama. Ok, I'm kidding about Obama. He knew he was damn charming.

Spot Hope and you want to chill and follow at a leisurely pace. Let them lead, because you believe wherever they're going is a better place than where you are. Even if you're in a pretty good place, Hope seems to know the way to your ideal local.

Neither Maria nor I have doubted for a moment that Dante should lead. We don't have any reason to believe he knows where he is or where he's going, but we're following all the same. Lots of problems with this, but my focus is how he isn't aware it's happening. Makes for dangerous traveling conditions. Good is when we're people directing powers. Bad is when we're powers wearing people suits. Even if it's a well-tailored Hope suit.

"You know," Maria is saying, "I always thought the vanished cities would be…I don't know. Exotic. You know? This place doesn't really look any different from Emerald."

"Vancouver was west coast," I say.

"Back in the days of Seattle," Dante adds.

She examines the glass dome before us. Glass and steel cleverly constructed. Gleaming like a mirror behind it, a tower rises into the sky. A smaller glass dome on steel columns waits like a dish over turned on straws by a soft white stone building. Golden tree emblem and words announce it to be some sort of hotel. Flags for countries that no longer exist sleep against their poles.

Ignoring them, Maria approaches the large glass dome. Wires of sleeping lights are twined in a tree beside it. Through the glass, I see another world. Not your world. Just the one created within the glass cage. Seats. Banners. Tiles. Trash bins. Tables. Maybe a coffee shop. If I squint and hold my head just so, I can see the hint of a corridor vanishing somewhere.

"Ohhhh." Maria's eyes widen. Her reflected smile shows all her teeth. "It's a mall!"

Before we can say anything else, she races around the edge of the glass. Dante looks at me. I shrug. We follow.

Maria's found the doors. It is indeed a shopping center. Metal letters affixed to mesh over a large pane confirms it.

I think she might squeal. Or make some other kind of excited high-pitched noise.

Girls, I've learned from my time among your kind, love clothes even more than they love Val. There was a time when I didn't think guys paid attention to that kind of thing unless they were like my brother. Then I met Avalon.

"It seems small," Dante says. "And sort of empty."

"This is just the entrance." Maria points. "There's probably another level underground."

He peers. Like he could possibly see under the cement. "Ohh. Right. That'd be clever."

I blink. Maria doesn't notice the slip, but she's probably too busy thinking of how to break into the mall.

Me, I'm not going near that much glass. It may not do the same damage it does in your world, but my people who spend time among your people learn to be wary of glass anyway. Dante doesn’t have the same survival conditioning. Like I told you, he doesn't get out much.

"This is good." He steps back from the glass. Nods.

Yeah, I bet he thinks it's made of wonderful. He can look for a new parka.

"I know where we are. Glass dome." He walks toward the intersection. "On Georgia. Avalon's told me about this place."

Something loud and petty crashes through my rhythm. Badly timed cymbals. Avalon hasn't told me about this place. I don't know where we are. I don't like being reminded there's a playlist for Avalon that I've never heard. It comes after we first met and before we met again. Dante knows it. Probably helped choose the tracks on it. All of them hits from Over There.

Friends are something I don't have a lot of. Makes me possessive of the ones I've got.

Dante announces the name of the shopping center. It's less impressive of a magic trick when we can see the words hanging over the entrance.

Maria tries the doors. They won't open.

"It opens at ten," she reads. "Any idea what time it is now?"

"We don't even know what day it is," I mutter.

Dante hears me on his way back from checking the street signs. Stops. Frowns.

"Go on then, Andy." I can feel the smile forming. It has a cruel angle. "Tell me that's not helpful."

"Shopping is something normal for her, Ethan. She's trying to pretend—would you take those off for a moment?" He gestures to his eyes. Guess he means the goggles.

I pull them off. "You were lamely saying?"

"I was lamely saying that she's in denial, and neither of us should be offering counseling. We aren't equipped—"

"To do what?" A headache tries to find room among the music to stay a while. "Talk about life-changing screw-ups? Help her adjust to permanent twilight?"

I can. I’ve had practice.

"Ethanael." His voice is low, cautious. Restraint mixing with concern. "You're acting like your brother."

"No, I'm not."

He doesn't sigh. Doesn't smirk. Doesn't exhibit any of those annoying tells people do when they want to call your bluff.

Instead, he asks: "Can you hear Avalon?"

I want to tell him not to be stupid, but I know what he's really wondering. Avalon's quiet like all of the people from Over There—but I've known him long enough to find his specific silence by listening to how it appears in other songs. His pattern of pauses isn’t where it should be.

"No." I frown. "I can't."

Dante and I don't spend a lot of time together. We really only started after he helped keep the Oliver stuff on the down-low. Val's been busy with his girlfriend and Avalon hasn't been around. It wasn’t like Chio and I would get along. Dante fills a quota. He’s mostly a mystery. A mystery who has been around long enough to get a read on me. Observant without obviously observing.

"He's here," Dante tells me. "In Vancouver. I can feel it."

The implied question hangs in the air between us, flashing like Royaltea's malfunctioning sign: why can't I hear it? I know why I'm so cranky, so resentful of everything he's done. Dante isn't the only one the change affected. Fortune isn't on lead vocals for me anymore. Creation stole the mic and the spotlight. Few powers are bigger divas.

Dante and I are magnetic opposites now—the same power, different polarity. We're lucky we haven't gotten violent. Younger people, ones with less experience and training would have. I struggle with family pride and the sense of entitlement partnered with it before I get the words out.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

It's a boon rarely offered by my family. Laying down all weapons and exposing my neck. We don't bow to others. Not even other monarchs.

"It's all right." He's benevolence and grace. What a prince should be. Only one of us is royalty and it's not him.

Judging by the look on his face, he wants to hug me. Like a brother or a cousin. The reassuring affection that's cool between family. I'm more of a mess than I realized. Instead, he punches me lightly in the shoulder. Manly affection. Maria's watching, after all, and she's already questioned our virility.

Yes, she has. If you missed it, it's because you don't understand girls.

"It'll pass," he tells me. "The important question is if we should involve Avalon."

Important? Maybe. Unnecessary? Definitely. This is us. Of course we're going to involve Avalon. He's our default stand in for a real adult. Plus, if Dante can feel Avalon is here, Avalon knows we’re here, too.

That's when the fact pushes its way through the muted music and my threatening headache. Avalon is in Vancouver. That means he isn't in your world. Angry pancakes just became the least of my problems.

"He's already involved," I tell Dante.

He arches his eyebrow in a very accurate impression.

"He'll know who Maria was," I say. "He'll want to know what's happened to her."

"Who will?" Maria asks.

I jerk. Nearly stumble into Dante. Messed up? I’m deaf. She was behind me. Even Not Right as she is, I still sound have seen the probability of her waiting around for us to have our little "whisperfest" was minuscule.

"We think we've got a friend in town." I warn Dante with a look not to correct me. "Someone who can help out."

"I thought we were worried about people seeing you," she says. "You know, the whole genius reason we were looking for a hat."

I think she adds and a clue under her breath.

"The mall's closed." I stuff my hands in my pockets. "Besides, I only sparkle in the sun. Not really a problem here."

She doesn't get it. Dante, however, turns a chuckle into a cough.

"Come on." He smiles. "We'll get breakfast while we wait."

"Lunch, Andy."

"No, we can do breakfast over," I say. "On one condition."

Dante's smile grows. It's like your sun edging out from a cloud. Sparkle sparkle. Glow.

"Let me guess," he says. "No one orders pancakes?"

Hope

2009-10-01T21:44:00.000-07:00

Dante's goggles narrow the world to two circles of visual input. No peripheral vision at all. No idea how he keeps from being surprised by everything. His calm demeanor doesn't match the hyper-focus the goggles induce.

I don't know what it's like for him. I know he doesn't hear possibilities, but I get that from my mother. So I know there's something Dante has. Some way of interacting—of knowing—more than humans do. More than even most of my people do. It has to do with why Dante's people exist.

Maybe the goggles are part of that. Maybe he needs to keep things narrowed down. Hyper-focused. Maybe it all gets overwhelming when he can see full field of vision.

From what I've seen, as he usually sees, he doesn't appear to be having a problem. Carrying on. Smiling like an idiot. Happy to play leader.

Good thing my hearing's fine. At least we'll get warning if residents come close. Dante will have to serve as our lookout for the guardians.

"How much further?" Maria asks.

Her voice is hushed, but still the first noisemaker blaring a Happy Something at a surprise party. Announcing we're here. Getting the party started.

We don't answer. I don’t know what to say. Doubt Dante does, either. It's that not having a real plan. Too hard to create one when so many factors are silent. I don't like feeling deaf. Like I can hear all the songs but the one that could actually help.

I haven't forgotten about the pancake. Someone still wishes me ill. Vanishing into the dream fields will throw them off my scent for a while, but I doubt it will be a long enough while. My song keeps remixing. Warning of unpredictability.

"We've been walking forever," Maria adds.

Forever. Like she can grasp what that means. Like any of you can. Even people like me or people like Dante have trouble comprehending something like forever.

What I can understand is time works oddly in Vancouver. Because of all the chronographs. They keep a rigid hold. Creating hours and days and weeks and months. Words to me. Actual measurements to those who dwell here.

As we cross the empty street, our footsteps against the pavement, I realize it may not even be Thursday according to the chronographs and calendars. Thursday to us. Not Thursday to those around us. This the problem: Arbitrary definitions of time only work if everyone agrees to use the same ones.

"Where is everyone?" Maria finally asks.

"Asleep?" Dante suggests.

Songs of power stir. Roll over. Resume their muted reveries. He's right, of course, we've managed to arrive in the middle of a Vancouver Maybe-Maybe-Not-Thursday night.

Great for keeping us unnoticed by residents. Really great for ensuring the guardians do notice.

Unbothered by this, Dante tries to continue the conversation with Maria. He says something mundane and benign. Not about the weather. There is no weather here. Unless he’s talking about the lack of weather.

He had better not be talking about the lack of weather. Maria is uncertain about him already. Discussing something so stupid is not going to win her over.

I am seventy-two percent certain I know what’s going on. I’ve seen this happen before. Not to Dante. But I can recognize it anyway. He's got two powers mingling in him like I do. Like Val does. With us, there's a dominant aspect. Fortune for me. Valor for Val. Sometimes our recessive power gets agitated. Almost like it becomes temporarily dominant. Makes us act slightly out of character until things rebalance.

Oh sure, you think he's acting this way because he likes Maria. Duh. Obvious. That's why I wasn’t going to mention it.

He does like her. But there's more to this than that. Infatuation makes Dante shy. Confident optimism is caused by something else.

The vanished city

2009-09-28T18:49:00.001-07:00

There are no cars in Vancouver. There were once. I saw them. Before the city vanished from your world. Sometime after that, they stopped working. Avalon told me the reason once. Lack of fuel.

No cars. No buses. The people ride bikes. All the time, since there's not weather anymore. There are trains for long distances. I'm not certain how they're still working. Probably because people believe they should. It worked for electricity.

None of this is what makes Vancouver weird. What makes Vancouver weird is everyone there acts like nothing is weird. Just kilometers and kilometers of normal. Thing as they are. Always have been. Always will be. Normal is quantified and enforced.

All that's really relevant about this is that it means Vancouver is a quiet city. Sometimes, in some parts, it's a very empty city.

"I need a haircut," Dante mutters.

He doesn't. Not really. His hair is now about the same length as mine. He's just use to it being shorter.

"It looks nice," Maria tells him. She smiles, like smiling can make what she's saying more factual.

She's been humming with concern for him. The change has left her shaken. He dances along. For all his practicality, Dante manages to accept whatever the day brings and moves on. Maybe because of that practicality. He saves being unnerved for things that are unnerving.

When Dante finds something unnerving, it's way past time for the rest of us to be worried.

"Nice." His blue eyes meet my reflected green ones in the large window across from us.

"You look like Oliver." I shrug. "He's nice enough."

Dante regards his reflection for a moment. "I do."

"Who's Oliver?" Maria asks.

Dante starts to answer. I can guess it would be a truthful one.

"Just someone we know," I say.

"I don't really know him," Dante says. "I know of him."

"Is he from here?" Maria asks.

Dante hesitates. It's not that he can't lie. His people are very capable liars. It's that he's decided he respects her too much to be deceitful. But Oliver is not someone Dante should know of. Or talk about.

"He's staying in Emerald City," I say.

A peculiar look passes over her face. Like hesitant veiled belief.

"I go there sometimes." I shrug again.

The music surges. She's increased the volume by sheer emotion. This is why I don't like to talk to people. If I say something, it can change everything. If I say nothing, it can change, too. I had hoped my shrug would change it so she would think it wasn't worth talking about.

"Can you take me there?" she asks. "I mean, if you can leave—"

Dante says: "It's a little different."

As I say: "I don't know."

I don't. There are very few things I don't, but this Thursday keeps confronting me with them. Like it's trying to tell me that what I don't know is significantly more than I thought. Her future doesn't scan as easily as others. What I can do is based on songs of power. Strictly human humans, quiet people from Over There, and Not Quite Right ones like her don't play.

What I do know is that the ones who live in Vancouver have never tried to go back. Or leave the city. They know they have the option to leave, but they choose to stay. To play at normal.

"Ethan was born here," Dante says. "Well, not here specifically."

Maria ignores him. "I'm from Emerald City. I was kidnapped by—something. Some kind of green-faced monster."

Notes of familiarity clamor in my ears. A girl from Emerald City—a fragment of a Beauty power—fragments going missing—a Beauty fragment that crossed the veil between our worlds and didn't return.

We all assumed she was dead.

I stare at Maria. Not dead. Not lost. Abandoned. Discarded. Left as Not Right as the Death fragment who did return. Well not as. Maria's a different type of Not Right. The step before in the process.

I know why she's familiar now.

"Sounds like a ghost," Dante says. "Don't worry. The city guardians keep the ghosts out of Vancouver."

The city guardians keep other things out. Often people, too. Like me. Dante could pass as someone who belongs—not to the guardians, they'll know him by those echoes of power I can't hear. But the people of Vancouver won't know he has no place in their most livable city. Especially since the changes have rendered him more human-looking than not.

He and Maria are fine. Not me. Not with my hair. Not with my ever-changing eyes. Especially not with my skin.

I grab his arm. Feel the tendrils of his silence float through the music.

"Do we have a plan?" I ask.

He stares at me, his mouth slightly open. It makes him look slightly stupid. Dumbstruck.

"They have rules about new things here," I whisper. "She's new."

"We could get her registered," he says. "Uncle Avalon told me the guardians registered all the others who came to live here after."

After what goes unmentioned. I won't tell you, either. It's better if you don’t know. Unless you already do. If you do, don't tell the ones who don't.

"Are they still taking refugees?" I ask.

Not sure what else to call them. The guardians come from Over There. Dante's people. They wouldn’t like the word residents. It suggests a permanence of relocation.

"What else are we supposed to do?" Dante asks. "It's not like we know enough residents to have them convince the others Maria's always been here."

No. We don’t know anyone.

"Avalon does," I say.

It's true. Avalon used to live here. Before Val. Or Chio. Before even Prometheus.

"Are you guys ever going to stop having these whisperfests?" Maria crosses her arms. "You're worse than most girls."

I think Dante's blushing. The change may have had effects on his brain that are just starting to manifest.

"Look." She walks over. "We need a plan. Otherwise we're just running around hoping things will work out."

"That's usually what I do," he says. "My mother raised me to be an optimist."

What Maria was going to say next is lost in her confusion over whether he's serious or not. FYI: He's serious.

"My father's an accountant," he adds. "He puts an emphasis on things balancing."

"My point is that someone will notice me, right?" She spares me a glance. "Since I don't fit in."

Dante pulls the goggles off his head.

"Not true." He hands them to me. "Here, it's Ethan who stands out."

His goggles are heavy in my hand. I wonder if I should tell Maria even if she can go home, she doesn't need to rush. The people she's so desperate to see don't even know she's gone.

"Too bad I don't have my coat," Dante continues. "You could put the hood up."

"We'll find a hat." I slip the goggles on. They aren't very comfortable.

"A hat." Maria throws her hands up. "That's your plan?"

"No. That's the pre-plan. One step at a time." Dante frowns. "They go the other way up, Ethan."

When I grow up I'm going to be a Harvard Symbologist

2009-09-27T17:04:00.000-07:00

I bet you're all wondering what I've been doing because you aren't following me on twitter, so you feel disconnected and completely unaware of my exciting life. It's almost as exciting as Ethanael's, who has a new twitter profile picture that sort of actually looks like him. Except he's happier and more manly. (I am require to stress that he is more manly than his profile picture because I know what's good for me.)

If you're not following us on twitter, I understand how you would feel left out. Before I was on twitter I never knew what Vicki Pettersson was doing, either. Now I am and I do, so it's pretty fabulous.

What I have been doing, aside from working out of my house 5 days a week, is reading The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown. I sort of got talked into doing it because of work. It didn't help me at my job, though, because reading The Lost Symbol is the best possible way to discourage anyone from wanting to promote it.

But we're going to stress the good things about Dan Brown's latest "novel." I put "novel" like this because I'm pretty sure that's there a lot of trufax in this book. Like lots. Just like there was lots of trufax in The DaVinci Code.

Anyway I came up with a list of 10 awesome things I can tell people about The Lost Symbol:

1) Dan Brown has learned the difference between a thesis and a novel. Or at least how to wrap more narrative around his thesis to better disguise it.

2) Robert Langdon grinds his sumatra coffee beans by hand every morning. Having finished the book I can't tell you what relevance this has to the story or how/why one would even go about grinding their coffee beans by hand. It is, however, the single most defining moment of the novel, because it's the first thing I think of now whenever someone says Dan Brown. Well, I also think of sock puppets, but that's a complicated in-joke.

3) Most of the 100 plus chapters are only a few pages long. They'd be even shorter if they didn't have so many ellipses in them.

4) There's this hilarious chapter in which Robert Langdon calls his editor to get a phone number. I can't wait to have an editor I can call anytime for phone numbers of people who don't want me to have them.

5) Maureen Johnson has a reader's guide.

6) You will learn about tattoos, Masons, and Washington DC. In the way that you previously learned about Paris and The Holy Grail.

~~7) Dan Brown made up this cool thing called Noetic Science—wait, no he didn't. That's a trufax. My bad.~~

7) Robert Langdon in mortal peril! Like for realz.

8) The bad guy does the Dark Arts. He's totally more kick ass than Voldemort, because Harry Potter doesn't have any trufax in it. The Lost Symbol has lots. Not about the Dark Arts. Just about buildings. But buildings are good things to know about.

9) Mal'ahk—that's the bad guy—sort of even has a reason to be so hatin' on the Soloman family. When you learn the reason, you're going to be like "wow, that was a pretty mind-blowing plot twist!" Unless you figure it out at page 140, then you're just going to be bored for the next 320 pages.

10) If you call the number given for Peter Soloman in the novel 202-329-5746, YOU CAN LEAVE A MESSAGE! OMG! Should I tell him who Mal'ahk really is or do you think that would spoil the ending?

All right and here's two more things you probably want to remember if you end up having to talk to people who finished the novel: 1) Zachary Soloman and 2) The Bible.

Or you could just say those two things to people then add "like Douglas Adams, I can only give you these answers. You must go out and seek their questions." You'll feel pretty smart and they'll be all like "WOW, you are like a Harvard Symbolist or something."

Change follows change

2009-09-20T16:53:00.000-07:00

Maria isn't waiting for directions. She grabs Dante's wrist and drags him after her. Away from the change. I think she thinks she's being helpful.

I notice she's only helping Dante. Sigh. Better follow them. Even though she doesn't have a compass. If she did, she wouldn't be running away. Well, she might. Most people run from change.

Grass bends and falls beneath my shoes. Some times your people call them runners. Runners for running. I do a lot of it. Catching Maria and Dante is easy. A few blood-pumping heartbeats is all it takes.

The change crashes along silently behind me. It barely ripples the harmonies—

The music. The possibilities.

I stop running. "Andy!"

He doesn't. Maria's white-knuckle grip means he has to run or be dragged. He's chosen to run. His family doesn't like to be forced into anything.

"Little busy, Ethan," he says. Traces of his father in the tone. Only Dante can't pull off the unshakable calm. Hard to when he's trying to maintain his footing.

"We have to go back," I call.

Maria stops, too. Dante nearly collides with her.

"Are you crazy, Ethan?" Her face is flushed.

I'm not sure I like how it feels when she says my name.

"Most think so," Dante says. "But he's not. He just experiences reality a little differently from the rest of us."

"We aren't going back," she says. "Not while that…thing is there."

"Technically it's finished with back there," I say. "It's whatever is in its way now that need to be worried."

She gives me a look like she could strangle me, which I take to me she's aware that what's in front of the change is us. I don't mention we'd have to go through the change to reach stable ground. It's obvious. Even more obvious she's not interested in listening to me anymore.

Oh well. Don't need her to.

"Divert it," I tell Dante. "I know you can."

"I can try." He wrinkles his brow. "But I'm not really plugged into the dream fields. You're the one with Fortune ties."

"You're the mirror-carrying mage."

"Not today. I left it at home."

"Guys." Maria pushes at her hair. "This isn't the time to argue. One of you do something or let's put the Abyss between us and that thing."

She cusses like Girl Val. There's something endearing about it. Dante must think so, too, because he adjusts his scarf and faces the change. He doesn't really need the mirror. Not in our world.

Fingers moving through the air, he traces shapes. Sigils. Instructions for the universe. On your side of the glass this was called mirror magic. Or it will be. Depends on when you're reading.

Glyphs glow with intent against the unknown of the coming change. They sizzle. The music in my head remixes. A symphony obeying a conductor. I think the dream fields will listen. There's a small chance they might not. They don’t like being told what to do.

It's still possible. We can divert the change. It will work. I can hear the beats spinning in our favor.

The change pauses in its approach. Brushes against those violet blue flames. Shrinks away.

Dante holds the glyphs in place by the strength of his will. He's easily more powerful than I am. More skilled. If he wasn't, I wouldn’t have waited for him to do something.

"That's so icy!" Maria’s eyes are wide and shining. "Totally frozen, Andy. Totally."

Dante's mouth twitches. He's trying not to smile. To divide his focus. Interrupt his concentration. He must like the way she says his name. You won't believe me, but I know how that feels. To have someone say your name in a way that makes you want to forget what you're doing. Even if they don't realize that's the tone they've used.

How it feels is how what happens next happens. I realize it's not really her fault. Not completely his fault, either. Just circumstance. A combination of different sounds. Improvisation. The universe can be full of it. Especially when mirror mages are involved.

Dante's focus wavers. The glyphs dim. And the change begins to move. Partially remaining instructions are enough to nudge it a little off course. But not enough.

The change warps the glyphs as it swallows them. Twists and rolls on itself for a moment. Then it surges toward him.

Maria screams out a wordless warning. Panic has her totally frozen where she is. I lunge. Grab his arm. Yank him toward me.

I don't reach him in time to keep him from being clipped by change. But I get there before he takes the full brunt. Before he's swallowed up and spat out somewhere else. The change rolls on its new course.

Maria is completely safe. Dante did what needed doing.

He coughs into my shoulder. I can't hear anything, so I have to assume he'll be fine. We can survive a run in with a change, but no one escapes unchanged. If you think you could, you probably think you go somewhere in your dreams.

"Andy!"

Maria stumbles over. The change has left the ground half-sand, half-scrub. The edging of a beach. The Shifting Lands have shifted. We're not where we were before.

I ease Dante to the sand. Gently. The change is spreading over him. Leeching out what little color his pale violet hair had left. Turning it a familiar black. Wild Changes, undirected as the ones in the dream fields are, can't create new possibilities. Only work with what exists within you.

Dante's father has dark hair. Curly. Dante's now-dark hair isn't curling. He'll be grateful for that small kindness.

"What's happening to him?" Maria half-slips, half-sits beside us.

"That thing contacted him," I tell her. "Now it's playing with his potentials. Don't worry. Minor physical alterations is about all it can affect on someone like him."

Or me. Got caught once. When I was little. Long before Avalon ever came to our world. My parents were doing something. I wandered off. Had my first unscheduled side trip. Might not have found my way back home if my brother hadn't found me.

The compass I have used to belong to him. Before our parents were killed, Matt traveled the dream fields a lot. Then he became King of Inspiration and he stopped exploring our world. Too many responsibilities. Heavy is the crown, you might say. You'd be wrong. There's no crown.

"What about someone like you?" Maria asks. Her unspoken question is what about me.

I point to my hair. "How do you think I got this white streak?"

I don't tell her it would be different for her. She isn't grounded, because she isn't properly connected to Beauty. The change might take her. Swallow her up. Not spit her out somewhere else, but spit her out as something else.

Like it's done with the bits of vanished cities.

"Is he ok?" Maria looks at me. "I mean, except for his hair."

You'd think she'd like his hair being such a boring color.

"You sure he's not hurt?" she asks. "He looks like he passed out."

I shrug. It wasn't the change that hurt. It was the spell being twisted while Dante was still connected to it. If there hadn't been mirror magic involved, it wouldn't have hurt at all. But if there hadn't been mirror magic involved, we'd still be running away from where we wanted to go.

Dante gasps, jerking up like someone returning from the dead. His eyes are wide—the too large pupil contracting, letting the deep ultramarine of his iris expand to a normal size. Both of them. His mismatched eyes match again. Always thought he'd been born with one violet and one blue. Maybe he wasn't.

He draws in a breath. His eyes go over my shoulder. He smiles a little and I prepare for him to give Maria some kind of unnecessary assure that he's fine. Probably apologize for worrying her.

"Hey." He points to something behind her. "Looks like Vancouver found us."

Or not. Dante, like Thursdays, is full of surprises.

Congratulations to Karen Mahoney

2009-09-17T18:22:00.000-07:00

That's for you, Kaz, because it has been a long time coming. Don't you worry about Flux being a smaller press, hun, we are going to send them to reprints on THE IRON WITCH. Oh yes we are.