I hate technology

Well, what was intended to be a five minute operation turned into an ORDEAL as this stupid site would NOT let me in! I still don't know what the hell happened.

So. Looks like I'm going to Akon 22 after all. I guess it's good to reconnect with old friends, considering that's the ONLY reason I'm still attending. Heh. Yes, Jim is my hero for the day, the week, the month. God love sarcastic, irascible old hippies! XOXO

Now I'm freaking out. Who will I run into there besides Jim? Who would even remember me? Who will I be ducking into side rooms to avoid? This really is like going to a damn high-school reunion. Ugh. I must be insane. There are reasons I avoid reunions!

But I'll get to see Jim again, get an autograph from him and Elizabeth Moon, check out some geeky stuff, and maybe see some decent bellydancing. (Not sure on that last part. Checked out the website for the group listed in Akon's itinerary...uhhh...I can do better than that, girls? Yikes.)

Ok. Deep breath. It's only a week away. I can do this. I can manage seven more days without losing it and running to the nearest spa.

The month would be complete if only Jacqueline Carey had not cancelled the signing in Frisco. Damn it all! I was SO looking forward to that! Hell with Barnes and Noble, too. Not that I've shopped there in years, but I'll damn sure not do it now! I just hope she finds an alternative. To know that she's in TX...and in my backyard, too! It's just too much. *sigh*

Gah...

Another year flown by.

Well, at least I got a chuckle from the previous post. And, yes, BB did find a new home. Off he went with Ma & Pa Clampett and the Twins-From-Hell. I couldn't decide which faction I wanted to see win, the kids or the cat. Both deserved one another, I think.

So...what did the passing year bring? I've finished Book I and am almost finished with Book II. So many rewrites in there that I'm not honestly sure when I ended and II began, but there they are. And I'm mostly pleased.

No, I AM pleased with Book I. No doubt about it. Book II...there are storyline issues I could stand not to think too deeply on, but I'm not willing to change anything at the moment, so we'll let it ride and see what happens.

Book III is in the works; I feel my internal machinery beginning to gnaw at the half-assembled storyline as we speak...

...or perhaps I'm simply hungry.

Say Whaaaaaaat?

Green Christ up a Tree...it's been a YEAR since I posted??
Damn that Facebook! So many things I could have posted here instead!
Damn Facebook anyway...stupid thing never loads properly anyway...

So...this post was actually supposed to be about the Spawn of Satan kitten we've (for reasons known only to the vagaries of the human heart) have taken into our once-peaceful home.
Born to Toby and Koona, the outdoor heathens, this black and white fluffball appeared to be a perfectly normal, happy, adorable kitten, but in fact, he is the Antichrist.

We've given him the dubious moniker of "BB" due to his childhood location. Because of raccoon and oppossom predations, his mother (Toby) moved him at approximately three weeks of age into the large plastic bucket in which we keep our compost (the finished, dry material, NOT the odiferous beginnings!) No matter what we did, where we put him, she was not satisfied unless he was safely ensconsed in his bucket for the night. Thus, Bucket-Boy was born.

BB lived happily in his bucket well into his fifth week. I would come home from work, retrieve him from the bucket (dust him off) and carry him inside the house where he could learn to run, socialize, and use the litter box. After about an hour, he went back out to the bucket for a little milk-on-tap and a snooze.

That worked well for a week or two, and then Toby (for reasons unknown) decided he should move to the floor of the garden shed. I suppose he was getting too rambunctious for the bucket, or perhaps it was the eruption of his baby teeth which prompted the relocation. Maybe Toby was thinking he might get eaten by one of the aforementioned predators and she would no longer have to nurse him. Who knows how mother cats think at that stage of kittenhood?

So, BB came inside. After all, he was learning to use the litter box and eat solid food, and I assumed it would be simple enough to find him a home through freecycle. Right? Wrong.

Two weeks now, only one response on freecycle (a girl who disappeared into cyberspace after one post claiming she could take BB), and we're stuck with him. (I personally think that Satan's Minions did away with the girl who said she could take BB ... sacrificed her to the Dark Lord, or simply had her for a snack ... I've no idea.)

Don't get me wrong, BB is adorable-looking. And he can be sweet when he wants. He comes running, purring and all, when I get home from work. But after one or two moments of petting and cooing, and he becomes the SPAWN of SATAN! He bites, he growls, he spits---yeah, he's just playing, but good lord! What is wrong with him? Why all the acting out? Psychologists would have a field day with him were he human!!

Even Delilah, one of the long-suffering indoor cats upon whom BB has been thrust, is baffled. And if you have never seen a baffled cat, you're missing a priceless expression on a furry face. Why she's being so patient with him, I'll never know. Certainly no-one else in the house has ever been spared her wrath for the slightest infraction, but BB-the-Hell-Spawn can bite her nose and she just blinks! Baffling.

We've come to the conclusion that even though he is a black and white cat, he must be ALL Basement kitty inside.

Peace in the house seems irrevocably lost, but I have to remind myself to be patient. Perhaps it's merely a phase of kittenhood I've never seen before. And, of course, there's always the thought that once Toby is recovered fully from her trip to the vet (had to make sure no more minor daemons were birthed, right??), BB can always go OUTSIDE to live with his parents! LOL!

In the meantime, we must be vigilant and not walk about the house at night barefoot or barelegged. Even sitting at the computer can be a trial without a flyswatter near to hand. The Minion is lurking...

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And now on a completely different note:

Not that this word is particularly weird or anything, I just happened across it one day in a dictionary search and thought it interesting. You normally see hypochondriac, not this. Who uses this, anyway?

Word of the Day: valetudinarian: A sickly or weak person, especially one who is constantly and morbidly concerned with his or her health.

And now for the critique:

Here is is, folks. Jodi Meadows, assistant to Agent Jenny Rappaport, finally got to the end of the contest submissions. (Mine being #56, wayyyyy at the end.) And, while I'm glad for the input (as always) I must confess I am stumped. Apparently, query letters are not my thing. I can't seem to balance giving enough pertinent info without going overboard.

Also (and perhaps I've already said this previously,) I think I'm going to have to find another site on which to post for crits. It's become apparent to me that the crowd on Miss Snark's simply isn't open to fantasy. YA and Romance, yes, but not fantasy/sci-fi and especially not Epic Fantasy. *sigh*

So, here begins another long search for those willing to read. Funny how my co-workers BEG me for more, but those in the industry seem to be quite adverse to the story. Days like these make me wonder, "Why do I bother?"

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Another long query. This is getting intimidating...

Be careful of the one-sentence paragraphs. Use them sparingly, otherwise they lose their punch. You have nine.

This whole query needs to be tightened and focused. I didn't get a clear picture of what the story is about. I've said this in other comments, but I'll say it again: focus on these things: Who is the main character, what is her problem, what is she going to do about it, what complicates her solution, and what are the stakes? What happens if she fails? Give the reader a reason to care. Everything else is extraneous.

Don't forget to mention the wordcount.

August 3, 2009 4:00 AM

Depression

Depression.

Work didn't kill it. Sweating in the garden (normally guaranteed to bludgeon any self-righteous snit out of existence) only made me more miserable. Cigarettes between actions (including the occasional clove) didn't made a dent. Even the mind-altering, euphoria-enducing effects of absinthe were not enough to shake it. Chocolate? Pffhht. A raindrop against a conflagration.

Of course, it doesn't help that the Secret Agent is only up to submission 14 and I'm #56. God. I'll wither of mental self-flagellation before then.

All I can see are the damning comments left by a raft of critiquers. (Not that I'm cursing them; quite the opposite.) Not a positive one in the bunch, I don't think.

I blame myself. Sure, I rewrote the opening AND the query, but I still haven't broken (obviously) whatever block it is that has so many readers deadset against going past the first paragraph, much less the first page. AND I made some ridiculously hideous rookie mistakes on the query itself. Gah. How can it look fine on the laptop and then so galling on the website?? Like flaunting daring lingere at a party only to wake the following morning to find one's soiled underpants swinging from the lampshade.

So, obviously, I am at that oppressive low of which so many inanely cheerful, PUBLISHED authors try to warn the yet uninitiated. What did I just read on one blog?

To quote: "Once you're in the publishing game, the insecurities don't stop. There's always someone with better reviews, more money, bigger tours, more fans, more sales, a cooler persona. There's always someone whose writing is so good, it makes you want to crawl in a hole and die."

Oh thanks. Thank you EVER SO FUCKING MUCH. And that makes me want to do this...WHY?

There are people out there like Patrick Rothfuss: brilliant, crafty wordsmiths ramming their heads against the steely walls of publishing for YEARS, only to be discovered through a fluke of fate, and yet...shlock like Harlequin doth go on. The Stephanie Meyers and Laurell K Hamiltons of the literary world bathe in accolades and movie contracts. And Joss Wheadon abandons Firefly to make...the Dollhouse.

But I still believe in the book. Even if I do not, currently, believe in my own ability to string more than two words together in a likeable manner, I DO still believe in JENNA'S SONG and what is, even now, battering at my head for release.

Muse, I curse thee.

Summer blues

Nah, not really. I mean, I've been sick, but I've been worse and know friends who ARE worse, so I'm not complaining...not really. (^_-)

Just feeling a little depressed/oppressed/compressed by the fact that I have to write with the windows closed now. It's reaching the 90's here and so the dreaded, much-maligned A/C must go on. So...no more burning incense while I write, or hearing the sweet notes of songbirds right outside the windowsill...etc. etc. *sigh*

But I'll get over it. One step outside for a smoke break and I remember WHY we have such wonderful inventions as A/C units.

BTW: in case either of you are following...love the pics. And thanks for joining me in my insanity. And Chief...where exactly is my probie?? I think she, of all people, should be following this. Not to mention reading. *nuff said, I think*

Now...off to watch the crows get drunk on mulberries. (Wish I could record what the goofy things sound like so everyone could have a laugh! Ha! It's entertainment at it's best, I assure you.)

Rejection

Well.
It's out of the way. I'm no longer a Query virgin. I have finally received my first agent rejection.

Yay!

Here's the whole response in its entirety. To read the other two dozen from fellow writers, one must go to misssnarksfirstvictim.com.

Secret Agent:
"I'm not hooked on this one, although the writing is good.
My major problem is that in the first 250 words of the novel, all you've given me is exposition. I don't have a character to identify, nor very much of a setting---at least, an intriguing setting.
And to top it all off, you start with what has to be one of the most anticlimactic first line ever. Just as note, A MURDER OF CROWS is a very similar title to George R. R. MArtin's novel, A FEAST FOR CROWS, and that threw me too."

(Okay, as an aside, the woman must not know, 1) the proper terminology for a grouping of crows or, 2) what irony looks like. And who is George R. R. Martin, anyway? Never mind, I'll look him up. But I really don't see the necessity of mentioning the working title in a critique. What writer gets to actually USE the title they come to the agent/publisher with anyway? It's always changed!

So ... it wasn't all that bad. Considering the agent said she was looking for "Epic Fantasy," yet chose the YA ice skater bit instead, I get the feeling she wasn't the agent for me anyway. YA and ice skating?!? Blech!

Strange thing is, even after tweaking the opening 250 words to include more "action" than previously written, I am STILL getting the rave reviews over writing style, but no bites on the story itself. Even the agent said the writing was "good." No suggestions or critiques on that part; just like on flogging the quill. Hmmm....pretty blatant clue, if you ask me, Quincey. I need to rewrite.

After all this, it sounds like I should be running around tearing my hair out and gulping Ben & Jerry's between crying jags, right? Wrong. Once I got over the fact that I wasn't really THAT much in love with the opening scene (which IS all exposition, I freely admit), the idea of redoing it was actually kind of appealing

That, and I'm addicted to writing. Nuff said 'bout THAT! *snarf*

So, here I am, in the middle of Chapter 20 of Book II, and I'm about to rewrite the opening scene of Book I. Just goes to show that creating is not all it's cracked up to be. Is that why I can believe in Creationism AND a wee bit of evolution at the same time? Who said God may not have wanted a rewrite on some things?? LOL!

Best of all, I've gotten my first rejection over and done with. I can get on with gettin' on. God knows there's going to be plenty more where that came from! Eek!