Charisma is a Class Skill

I've leveled up as a writer. I've leveled up as a writer.

Or, if you're more of a classic console type, I've punched my head into a brick, blinking with promise, and stumbled over the great fungal accolade that is an invitation to a writer's conference.

I was recently accepted to the Ohioana Book Festival, and I've been haunting their website in hopes of seeing whose company I won't be worthy of keeping (not to mention the many readers of my forever-home state). There will be books. There will be food trucks. There will be many readers licking greasy fingers before lovingly turning the pages of their latest acquisitions from the book fair. Who knows, maybe I'll even sign a book or two and my chicken scratch will seem enigmatic rather than the academic handicap it has been since high school. At the very least, all festival authors are asked to participate in at least one panel, and as I expect lame video game references won't be welcome, I'll keep you posted about my schedule on the events page.

And there will be ZenCha. Because a visit to Columbus without a visit to the Short North to guzzle tea would be unheard of. Don't make me drink alone?

The festival is on 10 May, which also seems like rather a good deadline to finish the draft of book two. It hounds me day and night as relentlessly as my toddler daughter but would, if books had the equivalent of child protective services, be seized for neglect. I suppose it's a good thing books don't have rights.


The Write Life

I didn’t make it to nearly as many Writer’s Track panels at this year’s Dragon*Con as I’d hoped to (I blame feeling all the mama feelings and coming home early), but I did manage “First Ladies of Fantasy” on Sunday morning. The panel featured Mercedes Lackey, Laurell K. Hamilton, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, and Sherrilyn Kenyon, and was moderated by Nancy Knight, author and director of the Writer’s Track. They were a delightful group, their answers to her questions candid and so very human. What inspires you? Describe your process? But then she asked, How do you balance your writing and your personal life? And it’s a question I’ve heard before, and the answers I’ve heard before, too. And they irritate the piss out of me, every time.

“What social life?” This from Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, her sentiments echoed, in one fashion or another, by all of the panelists except for Sherrilyn Kenyon, who was emphatic about her days belonging to her family (I gathered that she does much of her writing at night). Laurell K. Hamilton bemoaned that any “mundane” interruption in the morning made it impossible for her to settle down to write for an hour or more.

Every writer has systems in place that work for them. And I don’t fault anyone for setting boundaries, having priorities, or cozying up to a garden shed. What I do take issue with is suggesting that in order to be a productive, successful writer, you can’t make time for friends. For family. For leading a full, rich life that involves more than writing. And while they certainly didn’t go so far as to lay it out so plainly, I got that impression all the same, and it’s the same bleak picture of the prolific writer I’ve read before. But I think it’s dangerous and unfair to suggest that there’s only one way to live as a writer, one way to write. I had a creative writing professor who told me once that you do whatever you have to do to write. If you drink a glass of wine to wind down, you drink a glass of wine. If you need to go for a walk, go for a walk. Run. Bake. Sew. Garden. Read.

I recently set up a writing desk in my basement, but I’ve yet to use it. This doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing. I’m just coming to the realization that for me, right now, the notion of needing a “sanctuary” to work is the most convenient excuse there is NOT to write (on an unrelated note, Laurell K. Hamilton even suggested that this advice is only applicable to those writers who are introverts and thrive in solitude, which I found intriguing). I am more than guilty of lamenting the fact that my daughter doesn’t sleep through the night, and if I could just count on a solid six hour block of sleep I could routinely wake up before she does and get some writing in. Neither of those things has happened yet, but I’m adapting.

I write for ten minutes when she falls asleep in the car on the way home. I write for fifteen minutes on the couch in the living room while she constructs elaborate messes with toys, books, television remotes. Between cleaning up after dinner, bedtime, freelancing to pay the bills, and paying some modicum of attention to my husband, I write as much as I can. And I never feel like it’s enough. Rarely do I have an uninterrupted hour to do anything. Rarer still is my mind completely cleared of all of the things that want and need doing, the “mundane” demands of my life as the mother of a very young child, a good friend, a wife.

Writing has taken precedence when it comes to my creative energies (I don’t write music anymore, and play my guitar but rarely). But I never want to be the writer who gives up what they love for the sake of being more productive, because actually living is what drives me to write. I’m not suggesting that these writers aren’t living or even that they're wrong, only that it’s wrong for me, right now. Do I want to write more in the future? Absolutely. But two or more hours of quiet reflection is sometimes more than I get in REM sleep. So I’ll do what I can, when I can, as much as I can.

And I won’t feel bad about it.

(Hot) Flash: Daddy Played Bass

For this I googled "chambers of the heart." Better title? Maybe. It was after her third miscarriage that she decided to have an affair.

She picked the bass player, not because he was unassuming or sulky the way she imagined most bass players to be, but because he had a beard bolting new-red along his jaw. The color made her think he must be younger than she was, even if she couldn't guess by how much. It was like buying herself a birthday present, choosing him, eyes saddling his frame the way his hips did his guitar.

There wouldn't be any other birthdays to celebrate, besides.

The bar without her husband was like learning to dance again, but discovering she had only one leg, or three. Her lipstick spotted smoke against the glass of Malbec she lifted and pressed against her mouth, pressed and put down again without drinking. The bass player swilled something bottled and microbrewed on stage, his right foot braking against the amplifier pedal. For her the motion was something else, all four chambers of her heart flooded with gasoline, left atrium pumping poison, ventricle sucking off. Her blood moved, the bleeding that should've stopped but hadn't inking her panties in a language she couldn't understand. Her body talked. She didn't listen.

The bass player leapt from the stage at the close of their set and she rose, smoke and light catching in the hollows of her cheeks, her eyes, the places where once she'd had feeling. Her husband would forgive her. She'd already forgiven herself.


I'm thinking of the last few weeks as The Big Push, but I'm not doing anything so brave or useful as child birth. We're in the business of making books, not babies. I'm in my last edit, and because this isn't the first time I've said that, I have to really mean it this time. Here's hoping it won't have a cover (or contents) only a mother could love. I can feel myself getting sloppy. I'm close enough to fog up the glass in this manuscript, and it's time either to draw a heart with some poor bastard's name in it or a curse word. Maybe both.

I find chapters too long or too short and they're like bowls of porridge I think I'd rather throw at the wall than eat, strings of adjectives and orphaned commas like the seven fucking dwarves. Happy, Dopey, Sleazy, Garfunkel. Less telling and more showing, but not too much. Keep it in your pants.

At least until book two.

Electroshock Therapy

"Seventy percent of the world is covered in water, and the other thirty percent is covered in people who want to be writers." - Laura Resnick

I feel a little like a child who's just pried the safety plate from an outlet and is trying to decide which implement to jam inside. There are hair pins enough in every room of the house that the choice seems obvious, at least.

Though I wasn't sure what to expect, I risked being stranded following the rapture at the Clear Creek Writers' conference, 'Confessions of a Working Writer.' Laura Resnick delivered the keynote and delivered me unto creative salvation. She was candid and cool and my hair might as well have been standing on end for how charged I felt after hearing her speak, and daring to go and speak to her. I've felt more than a little helpless, a little reckless - maybe my finger goes in that socket, yeah? - querying seemingly for the sake of increasing my misery, but Laura urged us to take control of our careers as writers, to help make the rules when we must play by them, and for fuck's sake to put down the pin and pick up the pen.

On a break I escaped to the patio of the historic home where the conference was held and leapt to the spongy lawn below, current conducted down through my shoes into earthworm jazz. I tried to call M to tell him what she'd said, what she'd made me feel, but when I couldn't reach him I simply grinned, lips a lightning-slash and hot from talk.

It's not just that rejection can't unwrite what I've written. It can't unmake me, or what I want.

The Key of Hearts

Only a folktale tonight. Charrum was a seeker of treasures, in dungeons and in the deep, though the greatest treasure of his heart was Felea, the daughter of the wealthiest merchant in his village. Her hand in marriage was promised to the man who could deliver to her father the most unique, most priceless, most coveted object in the world. The trouble was that such an artifact could not exist because Felea’s father’s wants changed with the rising and setting of the sun. He did not know what it was he most wanted, and so it did not matter what Felea wanted most, which was to wed Charrum and leave her father’s house forever.

In his twentieth year, Charrum rose to a challenge laid by the local bandit king for a great treasure, perhaps the very greatest of treasures, and one that he felt would surely appease even Felea’s father. To enter the bandit king’s service Charrum had first to pass a test of spirit, and he made his camp that night in a circle of standing stones that were said to be haunted. Charrum laid himself down beneath the stars without a fire, shivering in the cold glare of the night as he waited for whatever was supposed to appear to appear.

As Charrum slept, three ghosts set upon him, pinning his arms and legs to the earth with their rotting limbs. The first ghost pried open his eyes, the second tugged at his ears, and the third caught hold of his tongue.

‘What is like a man but is not a man, has room enough for one but one is sometimes too many, and is desired by men and babes alike?’

The ghost with his hand in Charrum’s mouth only let go long enough for the young man to utter his reply.

‘A woman,’ Charrum said, his tongue released like a clapper in a bell. The ghosts vanished as quickly as they had come, and when Charrum looked about him now he saw not standing stones but many doors, each carved with a sigil. This frightened him no more than the ghosts had, and when he stood to examine them he recognized the symbols for water and blood, earth and flesh, screeching and song.

Drawing his knife, Charrum stalked out of the circle to a nearby wood, and trapped there a small creature foraging. He returned with it to the circle, crooning before the sigil for singing before turning his knife upon the creature. Only when it had cried did he deliver death swiftly, his whispered apology to the animal abrupt and tuneless compared with his song.

Before another sigil he spit, and another he mixed the blood of the creature with his own when he cut into his palm, dripping the mingled blood upon the door that had been a stone. For flesh he bit into his cheek, and put his hands into mud to print on the door of earth.

When Charrum had done all of this all six of the doors opened, each seeming to lead to rooms of greater treasure than the last. He knew even as he looked upon rubies and emeralds, gold and silver, upon a banquet table set with the finest foods, that the bandit king would take only the man who would take for himself what was of greatest value. And so, when faced with unimaginable riches, none of which Charrum felt could be real, Charrum settled himself down again and built a fire, roasting over it the thin carcass of the animal he had killed. He did not even take from one of the rooms a jeweled chalice for water to wash down his sparse meal, but cupped his hands together in a nearby stream.

Because it seemed only natural to do so, Charrum laid down to sleep after his meal. He dreamed and in his dream the bandit king visited him with a fourth and final challenge.

The bandit king was pleased with Charrum’s performance, and he promised him that the treasure would be his. It was, however, currently in the possession of another, and if Charrum wished to claim it, he would have to steal it. Because it was often the way of challenges such as these, Charrum was not surprised to learn that the treasure belonged to Felea’s father. That he should take it only to trade it back again for the hand of his bride was only fitting.

He waited until very late the next night to go to Felea’s father’s house. He was stealthy as the shadows themselves, slipping from garden to cold hearth to halls that were lit well in daylight but were dark as pitch on a cloudless night. Many tools he had to avoid detection: stones that would erupt in smoke if thrown, mirrors to reflect the light away should he be surprised. At every door he paused and pressed a little horn against the wood, listening.

Charrum dispatched several guards in near silence, clapping a hand over a mouth here, a sharp strike to the neck there. His skills were to incapacitate and not to kill, and when he dragged the bodies to deeper shadows, Charrum felt confident that the morning sun would wake them with throbbing heads, bruised egos, and nothing else.

There were traps and snares, too, that he could not have anticipated, set cleverly in the stones of the floor and into the walls. With keen eyes and quick feet, Charrum avoided them all. Because he knew where he would keep so great a treasure if it were his, Charrum stole quietly into Felea’s fathers chambers, grateful for the bear-loud snores of the man to ensure that he slept on while Charrum searched. The bandit king had not even told Charrum what to expect, only that he would know the treasure when he saw it. He picked the locks on several chests before finding the one that he wanted, empty but for a plain, ornate key. Taking it without thinking, for he did indeed know without knowing, Charrum left Felea’s father’s room.

Over confident, Charrum decided to risk looking in upon Felea as she slept. The lock on Felea’s door was no barrier to him, though he was challenged by her curtained bed, for he could make out only a little the figure that slumbered within. With hands more deft even than those that could make a man sleep without killing him, that could bind a woman to him with only a promise, he parted the curtain.

Where there had been no moonlight now moonlight fell upon her cheek, her gold-lashed eyes, lips parted in dreaming. Charrum made to brush his fingers across her cheek, but in that moment shouts were heard, and Charrum knew he had been found out. In the same instant Felea woke and began to shriek, her cries fading to puzzlement when she recognized Charrum. There was no time to explain or to touch, for in an instant there were guards upon him, and Felea’s father himself to confront.

Despite the guards that restrained him, Charrum thrust the key forward. ‘I have stolen this, and you shall not have it back again unless you promise me your daughter.’ Before the guards could act, he put the key in his mouth and swallowed it.

At this, Felea’s father fell to his knees, but it was gratitude that he expressed.

‘You have taken a great burden from me, and for this I will allow you to choose. I think you will find you no longer want my daughter, if indeed you ever did.’

When Charrum swallowed the key, he had relieved Felea’s father of wanting for anything, because the key itself was a thing of want. It drove men and women to desire what they could not have, what could not be, what had never been and would never be. Felea’s father had acquired great riches while driven by the key, but he had never been satisfied. The key was a powerful object, however, and could not be given away, only taken, and now Charrum had taken it.

As the young thief looked from the key to his would-be bride, he was consumed with desire, though not for her. He would have to be a man as wealthy as her father, wealthier, before he could deserve such a woman. In Felea’s room that night he might have joined her in her bed, but now he could only say goodbye. The key had seen into his heart, and showed him for what he was.

The Prince and the Snail

How about a fairy story? Excerpted from the novel I'm revising, whose protagonist is a storyteller. Massoud was the son of the king and a prince, but he could not have been less the sort of son his family wanted. While he was as happy fighting and riding as other boys his age, he did not go anywhere without a little snail that had been his companion since he toddled on two legs. When he took meals, the creature squatted beside his plate. During his lessons, the snail perched on his shoulder. When sparring, Massoud put the snail inside a little case he had made to protect her and keep her close, hanging around his neck.

What neither Massoud nor his parents knew was that the snail was not a snail at all but the goddess Alyona, who is known to prefer an animal shape to any other and is found more often in the company of mortals than others of her kind. Alyona delighted in mortals, and so thoroughly in Massoud that in his eighteenth year she decided that she would marry him.

Alyona knew the hearts of mortals well, however, and did not think that Massoud would take well to the ruse that had been her shape as long as she had known him. One night, while he was asleep, she slithered near his ear and whispered that he must take her as a snail for his bride. When he had done so, she would be transformed to a beautiful woman.

Massoud met with great resistance from his family, who claimed they would forsake him if he insisted upon such a marriage. His brothers would not speak to him and everyone in the court began to whisper that their prince had been driven mad. Still, Massoud would marry his companion and had two rings fashioned from fine metals, one for himself and one for his snail bride.

No one in the kingdom would perform the ceremony, so Massoud placed Alyona in the little case around his neck and traveled to the next kingdom, and when denied there, the next and the next until he came to a land so far away that no one had before heard his name or would even have known to worship the creature he carried. Married at last, Massoud slipped the ring around Alyona's shell, though once he had done so she was unable to transform to a shape that would please him, bound by the ceremony and his love.

Alyona had not known her man as well as she imagined, for he did not want her to change. Massoud settled quietly in the village where they were married, making a small and honest living and whispering his secrets to her as he had always done. For thirty years they lived this way; the whole of Massoud’s life they shared. As he lay upon his deathbed Alyona slithered to his ear and whispered the truth of what she was. Massoud replied that he had always known, but he could love her as an equal only when she occupied such a form, and so he had done and did not regret it.

When he died, Alyona was freed from her snail form and brought his body to her sister, Dsimah, whose province is sowing and harvesting and who is known to bring life to any soil, no matter how infertile. Alyona begged Dsimah to bring life to Massoud again, for if any god could do so, it would be she.

Dsimah could not, however, do what Alyona asked. From Massoud’s body she grew a great, flowering tree, and when Alyona swallowed a fruit from the tree, she bore a child that was cradled in its roots and raised dancing beneath its heavy boughs. So Alyona and her daughter, Massoud’s daughter, can be found still, sheltered beneath her husband’s arms.

Zombies Eat Babies Eat Baby Trees

I got a little drunk last night and admitted to my husband that what I really want to do with my life is work on my writing and spend my days playing and teaching and being terrorized by the children we don't have yet. I remember his smile now with relief, and hope that I didn't through a film of inebriation channel terror into tolerance. I don't know when I became the sort of person who wants to serve baby trees instead of broccoli, and while I'm not sure I have the patience to bake bread with a preschooler, I don't think that will stop me from trying. I imagined myself as any number of things when I was growing up, but a mother was never one of them. I liked to play college with my Barbies - admittedly, they spent most of their time hanging out in the dormitories I built for them, and not so much in class - and while the collegiate adventures of Courtney and Skipper were not even in the smallest way realized when I was an undergraduate, it was still a sort of inevitable dream for me, acquiring a degree. That I'd claw the eyes out of anyone who tried to keep me from getting my education, including my own when laziness or poorly distributed schedules threatened, didn't make it any less of a dream. It was what I'd always wanted.

When I graduated, though, I remember one of the things I thought was that at least then if I were to become accidentally pregnant, my life wouldn't be over. I feared more having a child and having to give up the pursuit of my degree more than anything, including the zombie apocalypse. That I'm not afraid anymore, or at least not as afraid,  would've seemed to me as unlikely as needing to take out the stairs in Collins Hall and defend myself with my acoustic guitar (I hadn't read Max Brooks yet). But I was, and now I'm not (as much).

My husband's response to me was, following the smile, that I'd start writing childrens' books if we had children, to which I informed him that I can't indulge in page upon page of sexual tension in childrens' books or carve out hearts or curse, so.

Covens and Covetousness

Reprised from the Delta quadrant. Welcome to Federation space. I've spent a great deal of time in the past few days thinking about The Craft, which sadly includes neither Fairuza Balk nor Robin Tunney, but does give me the power to render my enemies hairless should I become bored and vengeful. The molotov cocktail that was The World Fantasy Convention and today the start of my very first NaNoWriMo has my brains boiling with possibility. I've realized how utterly unaccountable I've been with my first novel and the revision I'm currently mired in - sure, I'm working, but how much? - and while I realize I'm only saying this now, how very little 2K is a day when you're not thinking terribly hard about it, which is exactly what I was(n't) doing when I was writing my current draft. The process was about as organic as holding my face under the belly of a cow for milk, which is to say, fucking messy.

But I'm still learning. School didn't teach me how to be a daily writer, or a publishable one. I learned how to get drafts in on time by writing them in a mad dash two days before they were due and how to take criticism, so much criticism, with grace that lasted long enough for me to escape the classroom and kvetch with my girlfriends. But, I can craft a damn fine sentence (on the third try) and I've got a lot of ideas. It's a start, which is more than I had in high school when we were chanting light as a feather, stiff as a board at drama club overnights and I was still writing poetry about boys and God.