Jeanie Writes Genre

Moved!

jeanjeanie — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 19:36:00 +0000

I moved the writing stuff here.

Treadmill Journal: Skip to Day Four

jeanjeanie — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 20:31:00 +0000

Wednesday: Breakthrough! Epiphany! Hallelujah! Rejoice! No, but really, as I was writing Ceredwyn's back story I had a revelation about her and her mother that will tie the whole story together. I love it when I find out new stuff about my own stories. That's the stuff that makes writing fun.

Yesterday: Nada. It was a busy, busy day, and then I went home and crashed.

Today: Nada some more. I'm using my free time to research podcasting and work on graphics for my Etsy shop.

This weekend: I have a short story about Ceredwyn in mind, and I think I'm going to go ahead and write it. I'll post it here if I do. Otherwise, I'll work on Michael's scene.

Treadmill Journal: Day Two

jeanjeanie — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 19:14:00 +0000

Working on: Hero Factor

Yesterday: 519 words of forward momentum on Michael's plot thread. Screwed around at picnik and made this:

Today: Get to know Ceredwyn so I can put her to work.

Tomorrow: Back to Michael's troll-dismembering scene.

Treadmill Journal: Day One

jeanjeanie — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 17:33:00 +0000

What I'm working on: The Hero Factor

Yesterday's progress: wrote 457 words, finishing out Sam/Claire scene (a day too late for the deadline at Our Eloquence, boo!).

Today's plan: Backtrack on outline to where I left off with Michael and start next scene in his plot thread. Do at least two 15 minute sprints (approx. 500 words total).

For tomorrow: Flesh out Ceredwyn's character. More sprints.

Treadmill Journaling

jeanjeanie — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 17:14:00 +0000

Lifehack.org introduced me recently to a new (at least to me) journaling concept: the treadmill journal. It's described thusly:

Unlike a typical journal, a treadmill journal is a single-purpose journal that records only a few scant piece of information per entry: the time and date, how much writing you plan to do that day, what specific thing you plan to work on, how it went, what you plan to work on tomorrow, and when and for how long you’ll work tomorrow.

I have, as I said, never heard of this, but it looks like a good idea and I'm willing to give it a try. So that's what I'll be using this space for, for the time being. We'll see how long it takes my enthusiasm for and/or attention to this idea to fizzle out and die. Now would be a good time to place your bets.

Earphones are MAAAAAAgic!

jeanjeanie — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 19:44:00 +0000

I just hooked up my Alphasmart and uploaded everything I've written on it in the last week. It came out to five pages, which is better than I expected. My total word count now stands at 52,550.

I'm sure the two of you who read this blog appreciate the updates. ;)

At-home writing has gotten easier since late last week when my husband and I finally hauled our sorry selves into the twenty-first century and acquired our very first mp3 players. I've had this thing for less than a week and I already don't know how I ever lived without it. Apart from being able to carry my entire CD collection in my pocket, which in itself is awesome, and apart from being able to load podcasts onto it to listen to while I do the more tedious aspects of my day job that take me away from my computer, I'm finding that the best thing about it is how it functions as a virtual office door. When my husband sees me typing with my earbuds plugged in, he doesn't interrupt me. Somehow, the typing alone was never enough to merit observance of my workspace, but typing PLUS earphones apparently means I'm really most seriously working and am not to be interrupted. Which is fine by me. I never would have achieved those five pages otherwise.

Excuse-making and lamery

jeanjeanie — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 22:43:00 +0000

Hi there. Remember me?

I wrote a leetle bit over the weekend. And I've written other little bits here and there over the last few weeks. So I can claim that I'm still writing, but it's pretty sporadic, I must confess.

Part of it is that I started up the paid blogging again. I really can't say that I entirely enjoy paid blogging, but it's easy money, and I've already paid off about a thousand dollars worth of debt this way, so I'm considering it my penance for getting into so much debt in the first place. So now my excuse for not writing (and for neglecting my "just for fun" blogs) is that I'm having a hard time balancing it with the blogging. And work and marriage and my sick dog and knitting and blah blah whine real life is hard.

I've also been ultra-ADD lately, but I'm starting to get that back under control.

So, no more excuses. I've got to kick my own hinder back into gear. I don't remember which of the Nano pep talk cheerleaders last year said that their goal is to just write 10 words a day (the theory being that once you get ten down, a few hundred or so more won't be that hard), and I'm adopting that goal. I didn't have time to squeeze in even ten words today, but I've given myself an assignment to tackle them tonight before I go to bed. I'll let you know tomorrow how I did.

THF Excerpt #3

jeanjeanie — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 21:35:00 +0000

Because I'm in a sharing mood.

***
Claire drove. She didn't listen to the radio. She didn't sing along with her mp3 player or make phone calls or dictate notes to herself or any of the other things she usually did in her car. She just drove. If somebody asked her, she couldn't tell them where she went. Sometime after dark, she ended up in her own driveway. She didn't know how long she'd been driving.

On autopilot, she went inside, went to her kitchen and made a sandwich. Then she left it on the counter and went to take a shower. Standing under the spray, she had a vague, dreamlike recollection of showering with Michael. Or had it been Not Michael? The dragons from her dream flashed through her memory, and she shivered. She shut off the water and went to get dressed.

Back in the kitchen, she took a bite of her sandwich, then spit it out. Her appetite was gone. She wrapped the remains and put them in the fridge. There, she spotted an open can of tuna, and took it out. She stared at it, wondering if she should toss it. She was about to when she heard a meow.

Startled, she spun to see Sam running up to her. Still meowing, he stood on his hind legs to get a better whiff of the tuna. Claire bent down and scooped him up. His collar jingled and he yowled in protest as she held him up by his armpits and stared into his eyes. Blank, hungry, aloof and annoyed cat eyes started back. Brown-green eyes, not yellow. This wasn't Sam.

He'd replaced the cat. That's how she had seen them both together.

This strange new cat let out a low, warning growl. Claire let him drop to the floor, then she turned around and dry heaved into the sink. She hadn't just lost a lover. She'd lost a pet, too. She'd lost the last week of her life to a lie. Absently, she uncovered the tuna and set it down for the hungry cat. Then she grabbed her keys, returned to her car, and pointed it at Timmy's. She needed a drink.

She needed a lot of drinks.

The bar was fairly crowded for a weeknight. Sickness returned to the pit of her stomach as she walked through the door, remembering the last time she'd been there with Michael. Not Michael. The other Michael.

That was crazy. But it sure explained a hell of a lot about that night.

With a shudder, she swallowed and found a seat at the bar. She grabbed a handful of boiled peanuts and chewed on them to settle her stomach while she waited for the bartender to take her order. By the time he came over, wiping out a pint glass with a towel, she had eaten them all. She opened her mouth to order a gin and diet tonic, double on the gin, but the bartender cut her off. "'Bout time you got here," he said, and jerked his chin in the direction of a table behind her. "That guy's a reporter for the Inquirer."

Not looking back, Claire sighed with impatience. "So?"

"So, I thought you'd want to get your guy outta here before he ends up front page in all the supermarkets."

This time, when he did that chin-jerk thing again in another direction, Claire turned to look. Michael--or somebody who looked exactly like him--sat alone in the back corner, obviously hammered. She watched in horror as he sang along with the jukebox at the top of his lungs, annoying his neighbors and sloshing beer all over himself, the table, the floor and some of said neighbors as he swung his stein back and forth to the music.

A bouncer near the door also saw him. The huge, burly man started his way, passing right by the reporter. Claire knew that that wasn't Michael. She also knew that everyone else would believe it was Michael. She knew she had to do something. She wanted to down a few shots of tequila first, but she knew there wasn't time; so she hopped down from the bench and intercepted the bouncer. "Please," she said, laying a hand gently on the guy's enormous arm, and he stopped. "Let me handle him."

The guy looked back and forth between her and... the other one, and shook his head skeptically. "I don't know, lady. He looks like a handful."

Claire fished her emergency cash out of her back pocket and pressed it into his palm. "Please? I'll get him out of here. Just make sure that guy doesn't see him."

The bouncer looked back at the tabloid reporter, then at Claire, then at the money in his hand. Finally, he nodded. "Five minutes, then I'm taking over."

"Thank you," she said. As he moved back in the direction of the reporter, Claire took a deep breath and went to the back corner table.

The home stretch is coming into sight

jeanjeanie — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 15:47:00 +0000

I managed to cram a couple of word sprints into my day, and as such wrote over fifteen hundred words of novel. THF now stands at over 50,000 words, which I think is a little over half way finished. I hit the big emotional climax of Act 2, and now I'm transitioning into Act 3, which will be lots and lots of action mixed with angst. The angsty parts I should fly through; the action will plod a little more slowly. I know it sounds like that should be the other way around, but I have to see a fight or a battle scene clearly in my brain before I can write it, and it always takes me a while to mentally stage and choreograph it and get a clear picture. It's going to be a pretty epic battle, too. It's daunting. I am daunted.

I had a minorly epic showdown for the climax of This Old Haunt, and I got through that by listening to the battle music from "Chosen" over and over on a loop. It might serve me well to watch that again, to get a refresher course on pacing and fight choreography. But I need to be in the mood to have a good cry first. So far I've only been able to watch that episode once since it originally aired, and it didn't hurt me any less. But this isn't a Buffy blog, so... moving on.

At any rate, it feels a bit like I'm heading into the home stretch. It's a long home stretch, but it's been a long marathon. I'm getting my wind back, and that'll see me through.

Contests and snarky dreams

jeanjeanie — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 21:47:00 +0000

The other night I dreamed I was browsing in a Barnes & Noble when I overheard a shopper behind me outing another shopper as Miss Snark, with said outtee copping to the accusation. I turned around to see who made the confession. It was Stacey London from What Not to Wear and Fashionably Late. She was dressed in a black power suit and red stilletos, with a white poodle tucked under her arm. "OF COURSE Miss Snark is Stacey," I thought. It made perfect sense in my dream. It still does. They both dole out advice that I don't always agree with but that I always trust enough to consider, and I always pictured MS looking like SL anyway.

Moving on...

I came across a couple of contests on my Live Journal friends list this morning (both posted at Nanoljers) that I'm thinking about entering. I don't often do contests--actually, I think I've entered exactly one short story contest, so make that "virtually never"--but it's probably time that I start, if for no other reason than to practice my short story skills. They certainly need the practice.

Byzarium is holding a contest to write a flash fiction piece based on this picture, and the first lines are already floating through my head. I should probably catch them and pin them down before they get away.

Miniwords is a contest to write a complete narrative in 50 words or less. Yikes, talk about a challenge! The prize is 250 pounds (it's a UK contest, but it's open to everybody), and that ain't too shabby. At the current exchange rate, that translates to roughly $488. For fifty words. And you can enter three times in each category (there are also categories for verse and haiku forms). Sign me up.

I'm going to try my best to get active at Ficlets again this week, but my novel needs to take precedence, so that will just depend on how busy and/or stuck I am.

And that's the writerly goings-on in Jeanie's little world this week.

I'm a busy bee.

jeanjeanie — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 16:49:00 +0000

I haven't written as consistently as I would have liked this week (unless you count the mad blogging I've been doing), but I have at least written a little over a thousand words on my novel. That averages out to about 250 words a day, so I guess I'm still making my quota.

I've been too busy getting my new blog online and established this week to participate at Ficlets. I'm kind of bummed about that, but I'm sure I'll get back to it next week.

This is going to be a hellishly busy weekend. I've got shopping, cooking and baking to do tomorrow for my sister's baby shower, then Saturday is the shower, followed by clean-up, and Sunday we might (hopefully) go out to see Cloverfield (whee!). Also, somewhere in there I need to fit in finishing the baby blanket I'm making for my sister. Somehow I'm going to try to fit in some quality time with the novel. Thank God for my Alphasmart.

Back on track

jeanjeanie — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 16:51:00 +0000

I'm finally starting to recover from NaNo and get back into a writing groove, albeit not nearly so frenetic or productive a groove as Nano. And that's fine by me. I made excellent progress this weekend on finishing up the scene that's been giving me fits for the last few weeks (by the way, regarding the epiphany I thought I had about the story that was hanging me up, I've decided to ignore it; my muse and I have agreed to disagree on the matter), and at the moment I'm pretty happy with it. I have no idea what my weekend word count was--I wrote it on my Alphasmart, and I forgot to bring the connector cable to work, so I can't upload it, and I'm not curious enough to bother counting words manually.

I'm going back to my 250 word daily goal. It won't get my novel finished in a month, but it will keep me plugging along, and if I keep doing that I've got to get to the end sometime. And that's all that really matters.

Is self-publishing the new black?

jeanjeanie — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 19:34:00 +0000

I'm starting to think about alternative routes to publication. That's... a lot to think about, actually. Naturally, my dreams have always centered around agent agreements, contracts with major publishing houses, respectable advances, best-seller lists, prominent display at Borders, et cetera and so forth. But also naturally, like many, many aspiring writers both before and after me, I'm frustrated with a process that means working your butt off for a year or more--often more-- to write, perfect and market a manuscript just to the gatekeepers, the people who decide whether it even gets shown to the people who actually have any say in whether it gets published... man, just typing that sentence was exhausting.

It brings me to the question: am I in it for the money and prestige, or am I in it for the enjoyment of making up stories for myself and others? The answer is, of course, BOTH, but seeing as how SFF is my chosen genre, I'm obviously not really THAT into it for money and/or prestige, two things which are pretty hard to come by in this genre. So do I want to bust my rear trying to get past the gatekeepers for a lotter winner's chance of getting someone to buy my work of three years for maybe a year's worth of minimum wage salary, if I'm lucky? Or do I just want to spend that time making my story the best it can be and then release it into the wild, wild web and see what happens?

The latter is increasingly becoming an attractive option, for a couple of reasons. For one, in this genre at least, self-publishing is becoming a more respectable means of getting both your story and your name out there. I'm thinking mainly of names such as Corey Doctorow, Mur Lafferty and Wil Wheaton (okay, not a SFF writer so much and already a name in his own write, but still, a geek/writer with some pretty respectable self-publishing cred), all of whom have had success with self-publishing. There's Scalzi, too, who got "discovered" by posting his first novel on the web, but of course he's quick to point out that he's an exception to the rule--except that he appears to be becoming less so, at least to my lame powers of casual observation.

The other is, obviously, the lure of having a direct line to your readers without any middlemen gumming up the works. Immediate feedback, baby. It's the crack that kept me writing fanfic for too many years, and its siren song is hard to ignore.

Of course, chances are very, very good that in an entire career of self-publishing I wouldn't make nearly as much money as I would if I won the traditional-publishing lottery and lucked into a best- or even moderate-seller. But as time wears on and rejections pile up*, the chances of having a career seem more likely if I self-publish than if I keep pursuing the traditional route.

Most likely, I'll start out somewhere in the middle by copying all the cool kids and podcasting my novel after it's done--provided I can either get over my fear and hatred of my own voice or afford someone with a better voice to narrate it for me--while still shopping the print rights via more traditional means, and see what happens**.

Of course, before I make any kind of decision about any of the above, I have to--say it with me now--Finish the Damn Novel, or else all is moot.

Back to work, then.

*"pile up" doesn't really apply yet in my case, since I haven't actually been all that prolific or active in submitting my writing; I have to actually, y'know, write and submit something before I can get a rejection letter for it, and considering I've only done that once for one novel and a very few times for a very few short stories, I realize I don't really get to whine about how hard it is and give up just yet. But that doesn't negate any of the arguments stated above.

**"See what happens" is my new mantra, apparently. I like it. It's kinda zen.

2008 writerly hopes, dreams, plans, goals, etc.

jeanjeanie — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 19:17:00 +0000

Hopes: I will finish The Hero Factor. Dammit.

Dreams: I will finish The Hero Factor and get both it AND This Old Haunt all rewritten, cleaned up and presentable and will sell them both for enough to obliterate my student loans, hopefully before it's time to also start paying off my husband's student loans. Yes, dream big, children. Dream big.

Plans: Write daily, and see what happens.

Goals: Finish THF, obviously. Try to get an agent. See what happens.

Etc.: My first goal-and consequently the second-is frustrated by the fact that I think I have to change something pretty major in my story; which is just frustrating all the way around, actually. But I'm coming to believe that the story will be much stronger for the change. Stupid contrary imagination, waiting until I've written an entire plot thread/character arc to figure out a better way to do it. Harumph, I say. Ha-rumph.

The Year's First Ficlet

jeanjeanie — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 21:13:00 +0000

I've decided to challenge myself to write a ficlet a day, in addition to working on the novel, just to exercise my imagination muscles and build my short story skills (which are lacking. I can do drabbles & flash fics, and I can do novels and novellas, but I can't seem to do anything in between. Or at least do them well).

Today's ficlet was inspired by this picture. If it happens to inspire YOU, dear reader, you can write a prequel or sequel to it here. You can also find my tiny handful of '07 ficlets here.

And here's today's ficlet:

Fairytale Ending

They arrived at sunset. It was beautiful-breathtaking, really-like something out of a fairytale. The Disney versions, even. But Jensen knew that this story was closer to the ones handed down before the Grimm brothers got hold of them and gave them a good polish.

Her grandfather had made sure she knew those version. He’d wanted her to be tough, not under any illusions.

She thought of the girls who had been brought here, one at a time, and wondered what illusions had filled their imaginations as they first laid eyes on this place, with its Happily Ever After facade. They must have thought they were entering a romance novel. Horror and True Crime was surely the farthest things from their minds.

At least until their boats docked.

As the boat pulled closer, Jensen flashed her badge at the uniform on the pier and donned her scuba mask. Time to bring up the bodies.

Bite-size is the right size

jeanjeanie — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 19:57:00 +0000

I finally got around to signing up at Ficlets today, and playing around in that sandbox. My contributions, meager as they are, can be found here.

It's not much, but at least I wrote something today.

Starting tomorrow, I'm on vacation for a whole entire week. I have a feeling I'll be too busy (when I'm not sleeping) making with the merry to work much on the novel, but I'll try to visit it and squeeze in a few words daily, if only to keep it fresh in my memory until I'm ready to attack it vigorously once again.

Merry Christmas, y'all. See you in a week.

TUF: Conversations With Ray - 3

jeanjeanie — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 16:45:00 +0000

Part one here. Part two here.

First things first: Amy called her office. She'd gone home for lunch and fell asleep on the couch, she told them. She woke up with a fever and decided to go to bed. They bought it. Work two years without taking a single sick day, they'll buy almost anything. Then she got out of her clothes and into her sushi pajamas and turned back the covers on her bed. She paused before crawling in and looked at the window. There was no point in opening it. No reason in the world. She should go to sleep and just forget everything about the past two days.

"It's stuffy in here," she muttered as she crossed to the window. She heaved it open and poked her head out, searching the sky above and the alley below. A rustle of wings on the fire escape turned out to be yet another pigeon. Amy sighed and went to bed.

She lay with her back to the window and a pillow over her head to block out the daylight and the sound of the pigeons and the alley traffic below. It took a while, but she finally came close to dozing off.

"He fancied you," said a familiar voice.

Amy's eyes snapped open. She threw the pillow off her head and sat up, turning to the window. There sat Ray, grooming himself and pruning his feathers. Amy flopped back on the bed and put the pillow over her face. "Go away," she said. "You're not real."

"Oh, bollocks, not that again," said Ray. "And that's a fine way to behave, innit? You invite me to your home and then act all disgruntled when I show up? I thought you'd be pleased to see me." He sounded hurt.

With a sigh, Amy sat back up. "I am," she admitted, both to herself and to Ray. "I just don't see...." She shook her head. "Nothing makes sense right now."

"What's to make sense of? I came home with you, like we agreed. And a nice looking bloke fancies you. What's wrong with that?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That man. The one you knocked into. I saw the way he looked at you. Been around people long enough to know that look when I see it."

She paused, a fleeting moment of curiosity trying to get the better of her, but she shook it off. "There was no look. Even if there was, which there wasn't, you couldn't have seen it from where you were."

"Sure I could. My vision's the only thing keener than my mind."

Amy snorted and tossed aside the covers. "Men don't give me those kinds of looks. And they don't fancy me."

"Don't see why not. You've got shiny hair and you make a mean sandwich. What more could a fellow want?"

She had to laugh at the simplicity in his reasoning. But then she sobered up. "They don't tend to want the person who got them fired, for one thing. I ruined that guy's life. I ruined a whole bunch of lives."

"What'd you go and do that for?"

"I didn't mean to!"

"Well, that's different then."

"Not to them, it's not." She hugged a pillow to her chest and buried her face in it. "I'm a horrible person."

"Can't understand you with your face in a pillow," said Ray.

Amy raised her head long enough to speak clearly. "I said I'm a horrible person."

"Pish," said Ray. "Don't buy that for a second. So you made a mistake. Granted, can't say I can relate to that, but it don't make you horrible."

"Yes it does," she said, laying her head sideways on the pillow. "It makes me thoughtless and uncaring. I only cared about saving the company money and getting myself a promotion. I didn't even think about the people my report would affect. That's pretty horrible."

"Right," said Ray. "Can't really argue with that."

"Thanks," she grumped.

"Just telling the truth, love. You want comforting dishonesty, go tell your troubles to the pigeons. Or better yet, make some friends of your own kind. Humans aren't exactly famous for being honest."

"Yeah, well, my honest audit report cost a bunch of people their jobs."

"So what's to be done about it?" asked Ray.

Amy sniffed. "I don't know."

"Well you've got a good start on doing nothing at all." She chucked her pillow at him. It hit the wall below the window sill, but even so Ray jumped up in a squawking flurry of feathers. "Attempting to harm a small animal," he tsked as he settled back on the sill. "Not really scoring any points on the 'not horrible' side of the debate."

"Look, I'm just a little confused, okay?" Amy got out of bed and started angrily tugging the covers back into place. "I'm getting advice from a talking bird, a handsome man is allegedly giving me 'looks', and I'm responsible for laying off an entire department!" She stalked toward Ray, who warily backed to the edge of the sill. "These are not things that happen in my world. It's a lot to process, so you could cut me a little slack!" She picked up her pillow and threw it back on the newly made bed.

"Sure," said Ray. "Whatever. No need to get hostile."

Amy screamed. Ray fluffed his feathers as if to protect himself. Without another word, she turned away from him and trudged into the bathroom, where she took two ibuprofen. Then she went into the living room and plopped onto her Laura Ashley sofa, leaned her head back and shut her eyes. She'd never been one to drink. She wasn't a tea-totaler or anything. Alcohol had just never held any appeal for her. But now she thought it might be nice to have a cold, stiff drink. Something that would burn on the way down and make her feel good fast.

Wings fluttered through the room and landed with a thump on the sofa.

"You'd better not use the bathroom on my couch," said Amy, her eyes still closed.

"I'll try to contain myself," came the sardonic reply. Ray sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I said you were horrible. I was only winding you up. Clearly it wasn't the best time for that."

"You think?"

"Said so, didn't I?" The sincerity in his voice gave way to annoyance, but then he recovered. "You're obviously not a bad person. A little addlepated, maybe, bit too stuck in your own head, but--"

"Gee, thanks. This pep talk is really helping."

"But," he went on, "I never would have talked to you if I thought you had a horrible bone in your body. And I'm an excellent judge of character."

Amy opened her eyes and turned to look at Ray. "Thanks," she said, this time without the sarcasm.

"Don't mention it." He hopped up and down on the couch, as if testing the springiness of the cushion. "Nice place you got here. Bit floofy for my taste, but it fits you."

"It does?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't it?"

Amy shrugged. "It's my grandmother's furniture. When she left it to me I always thought I'd get it recovered in something a little more my style, but I never got around to it. I guess it's kind of grown on me."

"Or you've grown into it," said Ray.

Amy blinked, then watched him pace back and forth on the sofa cushion, staring not at him but at the light bulb he'd just lit for her, illuminating her entire life with perfect clarity. "I am become my granny's furniture," she murmured.

"Now don't go getting esoteric on me."

"Oh, God." Amy sat up straight and looked at Ray. "This is my life."

"Yeah. And?"

"And I don't even know how I got here. I mean, I just sort of fell into it, you know? My furniture, my job... I didn't look for my job. I just bumped into a recruiter at a job fair who thought I had the right qualifications. I wasn't even there for the job fair. I was meeting my dad at a boat show in the same building and I got lost."

"Lucky break, sounds like."

"Yeah. I don't know. Was it? I didn't even think about whether I wanted to be an auditor. I just took the job because it was there. Like my apartment. You know that this is the first one I looked at?"

Ray looked around, nodding. "Like I said, nice place."

"No it's not. It's a craphole. The toilet only works right on every other flush, the floors are crooked, the walls are thin, and it's drafty. My heating bill is enormous. But it seemed good enough when I saw it, so I stopped looking. And I just put up with all the crappiness because I don't want the hassle. I never want any hassle. I just want to read and be left alone. That's all I've ever wanted."

"Not a bad goal," said Ray.

"Right. Just look at where it's gotten me. I'm all alone, getting people fired and hallucinating talking birds."

"Just me, really. One bird. And I'm not a hallucination."

"Like you'd tell me if you were." Amy stood up. "That's it. I'm done just accepting things. It's time I started making things happen. I'm going to take control of my life." She marched to the front door and grabbed her keys off their hook.

"Where are you going?" asked Ray.

"Out."

"Out where?"

"I don't know yet. Just out. I never go out. So I'm going out, and I'm not coming back until I have some idea what I want my life to be."

"Right. You want I should tag along?"

"No. And don't take this the wrong way, but I hope when I get back I won't be able to see you anymore."

"Good luck with that. Glad I got to be here for your existential crisis."

"Yeah," she said distractedly. "Me too." She opened the door. "All right, then. Here I go."

"There you go," agreed Ray. "Might I make one last suggestion before you go take charge of your life?"

"What?"

"Just a thought, me not being up on human fashion and all, but you might want to change out of your jammies first."

Amy looked down at her goldfish pajamas and sighed. Then she shut the door and went to get dressed.

***

And that's all she wrote.

Final note: When I wrote this, Amy was very vividly played in my head by Felicia Day. My head was still all full of Chosen. But on re-reading I think that bit of mental casting holds up. By the by, go watch The Guild. It's hee-larious.

TUF: Conversations With Ray - 2

jeanjeanie — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 16:42:00 +0000

See Part 1 and notes here.

"So if I try to show you off to people, I suppose you'll just make like that frog and stare at me in silence?"

Amy sat on the edge of a stone planter in the garden in front of her office building. It wasn't as nice as her usual spot--there was no calming fountain, for one thing, and no shade trees to protect her fair skin or her eyes from the sun's harsh glare--but it was still quiet enough this time of day to get in a good hour of reading. At least it had been until the raven showed up. "There you are!" he'd said as he dropped down onto the bush behind her. "Did you forget our appointment? Hope you at least remembered the cucumber."

She had. She'd told herself as she made the sandwich that she simply had a craving for cucumber. That's all. But she'd felt a pang of regret as she settled in the company courtyard. The memory of yesterday had taken on a hazy, dreamlike surreality, and she knew it couldn't be real. But a small, secret part of her wanted it to be real. When the raven appeared, that part of her had breathed a small, secret sigh of relief.

Now, as he swallowed another bite, he shook his tiny head. The sun shone brightly on the spot where he perched, lighting up his feathers with a bluish sheen. "First you call me a crow, then I'm the devil. Now you're comparing me to a frog. Bloody hell."

"No, I just mean, you know, that frog." Amy made jazz hands as she sang, "'Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gal....'" The raven blinked at her. Amy looked at her jazz hands and primly folded them in her lap, feeling like an idiot.

The raven gobbled down a slice of cucumber. "Won't be your bloody meal ticket, if that's what you mean." His beak was still full.

Amy smiled, rueful and amused. "Oh, so it's all right for me to be yours?"

The bird had the good grace to look a bit sheepish--if birds could look sheepish. This one certainly came close, at any rate. He swallowed. "Well it's not like I eat that much, is it?"

"Mmm," she said non-committally. It occurred to her, as it had every few minutes since the raven landed, to check and make sure no one was watching them. The coast looked pretty clear. She shook her head at herself. "I don't know why I keep sitting here talking to you. This is really freaky, you know."

"What's freaky?"

"You're freaky. You know, contrary to the evidence, birds don't talk. At least not conversationally. I shouldn't be encouraging it."

The raven scoffed. "That's awfully narrow-minded and speciesist, you ask me."

"Says the racist raven. Tell me again how much you love the pigeons and the crows."

He shook his feathers in a huff. "Well then, you got all the answers, I'll just be keeping my beak shut." With that he tore off another bite and ate in silence.

Amy half turned away from him and opened her book, grateful for the quiet. This was what she should have done in the first place: ignore him until he goes away. Even if he was all in her head. Hell, especially if he was all in her head.

After reading the same sentence over at least five times, she couldn't take it anymore. She needed to hear the raven speak, to prove to her senses that it wasn't a delusion, that she wasn't losing her mind. She shut her book and turned back to him. "Say something profound."

"Squawk," quoth the raven.

Amy rolled her eyes. "Don't be like that. Look, I'm sorry I called you freaky. Now say something. Please?"

The raven picked a mite out of his feathers.

"Fine," said Amy, pretending to go back to her book. "Whatever. It's just as I thought. You can't really talk. I imagined the whole thing." She glanced sideways at him, but so far her reverse psychology had no effect. "Anyway, in the stories, talking ravens are usually ominous and profound. So far you've been neither. If you said something profound, I might believe in you."

She heard an exasperated sigh come from the bird. Then he opened his beak and squawked, "Nevermore."

Amy glared at him. "That's imaginative."

"Oh, sod off," said the raven, bringing a smile to Amy's lips despite his insolent tone. "Do I look like some philosopher or bleeding poet? You want profundity, go read a book."

"I was reading one, until you got here," she reminded him.

"Well there you go, then."

Amy considered the little guy for a moment. It was nearing the end of her lunch hour, and she wondered if she'd ever see him again. Birds were migratory, after all. He might be ready to move on. She wondered if she should invite him to meet her again tomorrow, even though she knew it would be best if she never saw him again. He was simply too controversial. She enjoyed her mundane life, reveled in her status quo. When she wanted something out of the ordinary, she had simply to crack open a book. She didn't need the complications a talking bird would bring. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but what came out instead was, "Would you like to come home with me?"

"Got any cats?"

She blinked. "Um, no."

"You sure? You look like someone who'd have cats."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Right then, so let's get this straight: I won't be kept in no cage. You keep the window open, and I come and go as I please. Got it?"

"Sure, no problem. I'll take the rest of the day off and show you the way. God knows I've got plenty of vacation and sick time saved up." As she spoke her heart began to race at the prospect of breaking her routine. She felt both excited and anxious. The logic center of her brain went into full protest mode, and the I in her INFP-ness railed against the interruption of her habits. But that small, secret part of her finally spoke up for itself. It had been craving change, had been hungry for adventure and romance and anything out of the ordinary, for the things she'd come to believe that she would only ever read about. That part of her rejoiced.

She gathered her things and stood up to go. Then she looked down at the raven, realizing something. "I don't even know your name."

"Pfft. Names. Why do you humans got to slap ruddy labels on everything? The rest of us got no use for them."

"Well I've got to call you something. I can't just keep calling you 'the raven.'"

"Don't see why not. Not like you've got any other ravens in your life to keep track of."

"Fine," she said. "But it's a mouthful. How about I just call you Ray for short?"

"Ray? Now who's the imaginative one? Hope you didn't exert too many brain cells coming up with that one."

"You'd like something better?"

The bird waved a dismissive wing. "S'all the same to me."

"All right, then." Amy smiled. "Let's go home, Ray."

In a flurry of feathers and wings and without another word, Ray took to the air, circling high overhead. Amy tried to keep her eyes on him as she began the ten block walk to her apartment, still fearful that if she lost sight of him she'd never see him again. As a result she walked straight into a box, knocking it to the ground and causing it to spill all over the sidewalk. She stared down at it in surprise and then, with dawning horror, lifted her gaze to the man who'd been holding the box. "I am so, so sorry," she said, looking away again, one glance having been enough to take in his anger. She dropped to a crouch and began loading the box back up. "I'm an idiot," she said with an embarrassed laugh. "My mother should have named me Grace."

"Do I know you?"

Amy forced her gaze back up and recognized the man as the smoker from the fountain. She suppressed a groan and shook her head. "I don't think so. We've probably just seen each other around." She scooped his things back into his box. He had pictures and coffee mugs, framed certificates, sticky notepads and calendars, stress balls and a Slinky--the kind of things you pack up when you've been asked to clean out your desk. Understanding caused her to pause, and he knelt across from her, clearing his throat.

"Here. I've got it."

"I, um...." said Amy, at a loss. This was why she didn't talk to strangers. She was just so terrible at it. She looked up at the sky, as if Ray might be able to offer some help. But she couldn't see him anywhere, and in a surge of panic she stood up.

"Forget it," said the smoker, also standing and hefting his box. "I know this is awkward. I wouldn't want my getting laid off to ruin your day."

"What?" She looked back at him, momentarily forgetting the raven. "No, I... I just... God, I suck at this sort of thing."

"Yeah. Me too." He stared her down, and she lowered her gaze to his chest, where there dangled an empty ID lanyard that sported the Willis Brothers, Inc. logo. She'd only ever seen him at the fountain and had no idea that he worked for her company. She kept her eyes on the lanyard. He was a handsome man, all blond, blue-eyed and Teutonic, and he had a nice guy look about him despite his current crankiness. She couldn't take the scrutiny of attractive people, especially men. Especially men who might have witnessed her beginning to lose her mind. "You were at the fountain yesterday," he said.

Crap. "Um, yeah," she said. "I usually take my lunch there."

"What was it you were saying to me?"

"Nothing." She said it too quickly, a sure sign of guilt. She grasped for a credible lie. "Oh, you must have heard me on the phone. I had one of those ear-piece thingies. I don't use it often because I'm afraid it makes me look like a raving lunatic." She smiled what she hoped was a knowing smile.

"Right," he said, but his narrowed eyes looked unconvinced. "In any case, I was pretty rude about it. I'm sorry. I was in a pretty bad mood. I'd just found out about... you know." He indicated his box.

Amy waved a dismissive hand. "No problem. It's... yeah. I'm really sorry."

He shrugged. "Forget it. I was getting burned out in that job anyway. That auditor probably did me a favor."

"Auditor?"

"Yeah. Some internal auditor wrote a report that said my whole department was redundant. The axe dropped on all of us. I'm just the first one to get cut."

"Oh," said Amy. Then, "Oh, God."

"Don't worry. I'm sure your job's safe."

She shook her head. "I'm so, so sorry about this."

He shrugged again. "Hey, not like it's your fault or anything." Amy could only offer a nervous laugh in reply. They stood in awkward silence for an eternity. Finally he shifted his box and said, "Well, I'd best get going before they decide to send security to see me off the property."

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"You keep saying that."

"Because I am."

He gave her another sly look, and she thought he must see through her. She braced herself, waiting to be told what a horrible person she was. But all he said was, "Well, that's awfully nice of you." He furrowed his brow a moment, as if thinking of something else to tell her, but then he simply said, "See you around," and started on his way.

Amy watched him go, feeling slightly nauseated. There were ten people in his department. She knew this because she was the one who wrote the report. Ten people would be losing their jobs because of her. She felt like scum. Looking up at the sky, she still saw no sign of the raven. Of course she didn't. He'd been a delusion all along, and she'd just been shocked back to reality. Reality wasn't magical talking birds carrying excitement into her dreary life. Reality was hardworking people getting unfairly laid off because of people who spent all of their time crunching numbers and watching the bottom line. People who were out of touch with the humanity behind the cogs in the machine. People like her.

She briefly considered going back to work, to try and fix this somehow. But she knew it was too late. It would take months for an amendment to her report to get through the channels and have a chance at changing upper management minds. With reality bearing down on her like the world upon Atlas's shoulders, she decided to go home. She needed to lie down for a while.

The Unfinished Files: Conversations With Ray - 1

jeanjeanie — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 16:38:00 +0000

I think I posted this a couple of years (or so) back at Sparkle Motion. I'm posting it here now for archival purposes. I don't know how likely it is to ever be finished, but even so, feedback is welcome.

"Are you going to eat that?"

Amy Catterson lowered her book and looked around. Her bench was empty, save for her and the large black bird perched on the opposite end, a black hole in a galaxy of pigeons sprinkling the square like so much space dust. They outnumbered the lunchtime stragglers at least a dozen to one. Across the fountain a man in rolled up shirtsleeves loosened his tie, stretched his neck and blew a geyser of cigarette smoke up at the sky. Some people clad in business casual trickled out of the diners and coffee shops on their way back to the daily grind. None of them had spoken to her. None of them even seemed to notice her. Not that they ever did.

Half a block down, a panhandler held out his hand to a man wearing the official Casual Friday uniform of Polo and Dockers. Nothing casual about the way the guy hurried away from the homeless man, though. It must have been him that she heard asking for food. Half a block down and she'd heard him plain as day, as though he were sitting right next to her. Weird.

Amy gnawed her bottom lip and flipped a page in her book. It wasn't really that weird, she supposed. In a movie theater halfway across town, one of the huge ones where she could go by herself and not stand out too much, there was one seat in which you could hear every conversation going on in the theater as clearly as if it were happening right beside you. It was her favorite seat, at least until the movie started. Just a few blocks down, too, was a spot where you could stand and speak, and to your own ears it sounded like you were talking into a tin can. To everybody else, meanwhile, your voice sounded perfectly normal. An acoustical anomaly, they called it. That's all it was. An anomaly. Satisfied, Amy scooted down a few inches on her bench so that it wouldn't bother her again. She just wanted to read in peace.

That was why she always took her lunch late, to avoid the usual workaday crowd. She liked the sound the fountain made without a multitude of voices drowning it in chit chat. She also liked the way the sun cleared all the buildings to shine down on the square, filtering through the dogwood trees and Japanese maples that lined the sidewalks to create a dappled, lazy afternoon effect that Amy found relaxing. It smelled fresh here, too, and sounded quiet, almost quiet enough to convince her for an hour that she was out in the countryside and not in the middle of the smog-and-noise-polluted city.

It was a perfect place to sit and read and escape. She'd discovered it about two years ago, a week after starting her internal auditing job, her first real corporate job in her first real corporate downtown setting. Every day at one o'clock, weather permitting, she would take her book and her homemade sandwich (or sometimes soup) and walk three blocks to this very bench to eat and read and pretend that she didn't spend the bulk of her days poring over policy and procedure manuals.

A rustling of feathers at the other end of the bench drew her attention away from her book. "I asked if you're going to eat that."

Amy blinked at the black bird. It had hopped down from the arm of the bench to the seat, and was eyeballing the half of sandwich beside her that she had yet to eat. It sounded for all the world like the question had come from the bird. Amy snerked at the idea and looked around. There was nobody here but the pigeons. And the man across the fountain, still working on his cigarette.

On the bench, the bird puffed up its chest and deflated slowly as though heaving a weary sigh. Then it looked at her. It looked right at her, blinking up at her with its beady little black bird eyes. "Look, don't mean to be pushy," it seemed to say. The voice she heard was male, with a distinct lower class London accent. "It's just that I've flown so far, and I'm bloody exhausted. And I'm hungry enough to make a go at one of those pigeons. Wouldn't consider that cannibalism. Bloody rats with wings, they are. Filthy bastards."

"Um," said Amy. Then she looked over at the smoking man across the fountain, and got it. Ha ha, she thought, her inner voice dripping with irate sarcasm. It is to laugh. As a rule, she didn't talk to people. Not to strangers, not outside of a business setting. Usually, she couldn't think of anything to say, and when she could, she doubted they really wanted to hear it. But the rule sometimes warranted exceptions, and this was one of those times. One in which she had plenty to say, and he had it coming, whether he wanted to hear it or not. She wouldn't be taken for a fool.

"That's a neat trick," Amy called, careful to keep her voice cordial. Her job gave her a lot of practice at staying cordial in the face of irritation.

He took his cigarette out of his mouth and looked around to see who had spoken. Finally his gaze settled on her. "What?" he called back. He didn't sound English. He sounded straight up Sooner born and Sooner bred. He hadn't even bothered to polish the twang out of his voice like most of the other overeducated and corporatized natives around here. Must be part of his act.

"How'd you learn to do that? Throw your voice like that, I mean." He stared at her like she'd started speaking in tongues. "And with a cigarette in your mouth, too. That's impressive."

The man stared at her a moment more. Then he dropped his cigarette on the ground, crushed it under his shoe, and headed back to wherever he belonged. Amy allowed herself a small smirk as she went back to her book, glad to have that nonsense over with and also proud of the way she'd handled it. He'd mistaken her for just another pigeon, but she'd set him straight. He'd have to find another mark on which to practice his act. She reached for her sandwich and got a peck on the back of her hand.

"Hey!" She jerked her hand away and rubbed it, glaring at the bird. It had helped itself to the rest of her lunch while she'd been distracted. She waved her arms at it. "Shoo!"

The bird swallowed a beakful of tuna and looked up at her. "Well that's what you get, innit? I tried asking, didn't I? You're going to be so rude as to ignore me, I'm not going to be so courteous as to ask again."

Amy slowly lowered her arms to her lap. She stared as the bird pecked ravenously at the remains of her sandwich. Eventually she realized that her mouth gaped open, and with a certain amount of effort she managed to shut it. Then she opened it again to say, "Huh."

"What?" the bird--there was nobody it could be but the bird--mumbled, its beak full. "Don't tell me you've never heard of a talking bird."

"Of course I have," snapped Amy. The bird's voice held a certain tone that rankled her out of her shock. She didn't like being condescended to, not even by figments of her imagination. "When I was a little girl I had a budgie that said 'pretty bird' every time it saw a mirror."

The bird snorted. "Hardly the same thing, is it?"

"No. I guess not." Amy bit her lip and thought hard, grasping for a precedent that meant she wasn't losing her mind. "African Grays," she said at last. "I saw a nature special about them once. They're really intelligent. They can even count."

"Pfft. Pea brains, the lot of 'em. Here, I can count. Watch me count pigeons." It seemed to point with its beak as it said, "One pigeon, two pigeons, three pigeons, four pigeons, five fucking billion pigeons, the whole lot of which ought to be exterminated, and I'm already bored with this." It took another bite of her sandwich.

Amy stared and watched it eat. Finally she said, "I don't see how your brain could be much bigger."

"Not bigger," mumbled the bird around a piece of bread crust. "Just more evolved."

"Right." Amy stared some more. Then she looked away from the bird and rubbed her forehead. "Am I really sitting here having a conversation with a crow?"

The bird sputtered, nearly choking on its crust. "Excuse me? A crow? A ruddy corn-fed slack-jaw, is that what you take me for?"

"Sorry," said Amy, feeling genuinely bad for hurting the little thing's feelings. Then she remembered the absurdity of the situation and got over it. "So then, what are you?"

With a sigh, the bird abandoned her sandwich and flitted up to perch on the back of the bench. It strutted back and forth as it spoke. "Note the large, regal stature, if you will. The proud black beak. The tuft of feathers atop my head that resembles the royal crown. I, madam, am nothing less than a pure bred raven. Royal stock, I might add."

"Oh." Amy nodded. "Good for you."

"Bloody right," it said, then muttered, "Crow." It shook its head. "So now we've established that, I s'pose it's not such a shock, me talking to you and all."

Amy offered a nervous giggle, and then looked down at her lap. "It's not a shock," she said. "I can't be shocked by something that's not real. I've obviously fallen asleep and started dreaming. I should probably wake myself up and go back to work." She waited a moment before poking herself in the arm. "Wake up, Amy!"

But the bird kept talking. "Oh, come on! Surely you've read tale of talking ravens. We're all over your literature."

"I have," she admitted. "In stories. Fantasies. Fiction."

The bird harrumphed. "You calling the Bible a work of fiction?"

Amy narrowed her eyes. "I haven't decided yet. There are talking crows in the Bible?"

"Ravens. Sure there are. Ecclesiastes ten verse twenty: 'For a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.' Had to be talking about a raven. Couldn't be nothing else."

"Right." Amy nodded like she always did when people quoted scripture at her.

"'Course, it also has a talking bush and a talking ass, but those are both actually God. They don't count."

"Right," she said again. Then a very frightening thought occurred to her. She leaned closer to the bird and asked, confidentially, "So, you're not, you know... God, are you?"

"Well that's flattering, innit? But my ego's not quite huge enough to let me answer in the affirmative."

She leaned away again, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. "Are you the devil?"

The raven cocked its head to one side. Amy could swear she saw a mischievous glint in its eyes. "Would I admit it if I was? Much more fun to keep you guessing, I'd think."

"Oh God." Amy put her face in her hands.

"Already established you're wrong on that count."

"Shut up! Oh God. Am I losing my mind?"

"I'm no Sigmund Freud, neither," said the bird, "so I wouldn't know. But I'm not God, and I'm not the devil, and I'm not some voice in your head. I'm just me. Not my fault none of my brethren ever saw fit to open their beaks around you before."

Amy let this sink in, trying to draw comfort from it. She lowered her hands and looked at the bird. "So you're telling me that ravens really talk? All of them?"

"Not all. Got a cousin never picked up the knack, but we don't talk about him in mixed company."

"So ravens talk," repeated Amy. "And they're literate, apparently."

"Yeah. Being raised mostly in cathedrals and libraries, that was bound to happen. I'm a library bird, m'self. Though my great-grandfather was bred at the Tower."

"The tower?"

"Yeah. Tower of London?"

"Okay." Amy nodded. Then she clutched her book and stood up. "Well. It's been, um... it's been a real experience. But I've got to get back to work." Nice, safe work, where normalcy ruled and the only talking animals were of the human jackass variety.

"'Course," said the bird. "Thanks for the grub. Don't suppose you'll be back tomorrow with another? I'm quite fond of cucumber."

She would. She always came here. But she shouldn't tell him that. She should hope he'd fly away and she'd never have to think about talking birds again. "Cucumber," she said instead. "Got it."

"Ta," said the raven. "See you then."

"Yeah. See you." As she walked back to her office, Amy mourned the loss of her routine. She was going to have to find somewhere else to take her lunch.

Chock full of excuses!

jeanjeanie — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 21:18:00 +0000

I'm not writing, y'all. I'm just...not. Well, I am a little--a very little--I've managed a thousand words this week by dribbling them out here and there a bit at a time. But I don't have anywhere near the momentum or motivation that I had during WriMo.

I'm guessing the reason is a combination of factors. For one thing, we lost our power this week in the massive ice storm (it's back on now, though, as of last night), and it's been too cold, dark and depressing to write. And whenever I managed to get online I was so starved for entertainment and social contact that I couldn't bring myself to do much more than play and talk.

I also think it was a mistake to sign up for NaNoFiMo. WriMo kind of left me burned out, and it probably would have been smarter to take more than a couple of days off to recover. I mean, I wrote over 200 pages in three weeks (I got a late start thanks to Bratwurstgate). I deserved to rest.

The other thing--and this is the biggie--is that I'm trying to write a crucial scene. I've mentioned writing other important scenes that I've envisioned for a long time, but this is THE scene, the one that's the reason I decided to write this book in the first place, and I'm feeling a lot of pressure to get it right.

So I think I'm going to quietly bow out of FiMo and go back to my goal of 250 words a day. Maybe once I get through this scene I'll be able to pick up the pace, but, it's been a crazy, crazy couple of months. For the time being, I think I need to ease up on myself.

Good intentions, road to hell, etc.

jeanjeanie — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 19:38:00 +0000

Have you heard about the Organization for Transformative Works? According to their web site:

We envision a future in which all fannish works are recognized as legal and transformative and are accepted as a legitimate creative activity. We are proactive and innovative in protecting and defending our work from commercial exploitation and legal challenge. We preserve our fannish economy, values, and creative expression by protecting and nurturing our fellow fans, our work, our commentary, our history, and our identity while providing the broadest possible access to fannish activity for all fans.

That all sounds very nice and noble, but among their goals is the following:

~ Establishing a legal defense project and forming alliances to defend fanworks from legal challenge.

Essentially, this is a non-profit group who wants to help fanfic and other forms of fan art to be considered both legitimate (woo!) and legal (um...woo?).

On the surface this sounds pretty good to this former fanfic writer, but upon further consideration, two thoughts occur to me: one, it doesn't matter if fic gets an official stamp of lit'rary approval declaring it a legitimate form of writing; the people who look down on it as a masturbatory waste of time now will still look down on it then, no matter how well written it may be. And two, won't the fight to legalize fanfic only really serve to rock a boat that's floating in waters that are, for the most part, comfortably off-radar? I don't see this being a particularly good thing for the online fic community in the short run.

(Yes, yes, I know: "Wouldn't you know all about rocking the boat, cousinjean? Didn't you try to get paid for your own fanfic?" No, I did not. When my contract job was ending I asked my regular readers for donations to buy me time to finish the original romance novel I was working on at the time (the still unfinished Eat Me In St. Louie--which, I realize was still not the most tasteful thing I could have done, and believe me, I still hang my head in shame over it--but the thought that people believe I was a colossal enough moron to ask for money for fanfic still makes me cry. And that's all I'm going to say about that, except to point out that I believed my intentions were pretty pure at the time, and look where that got me? Hell hath no fury like a fandom scorned.)

At any rate, there's a good discussion about it over at Scalzi's blog that touches on my concerns and also explores ways that this could possibly work.

Even if I don't read or write the stuff anymore, fanfic practices still fascinate me, and I still hope for the best for the fanfic/fanart community. So this is something I'll be keeping my eye on.

gigglesnort

jeanjeanie — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 19:06:00 +0000

Know what's worse than dictating a scene into a recorder? Dictating a SEX scene. I can barely get through typing about lovemaking without breaking into giggles as it is. I'm transcribing what I recorded on the way home, and trying to decipher what I'm saying through all of the cracking myself up is its own special challenge. I have the sensibilities of a twelve-year-old boy.

Word count ramblings

jeanjeanie — Tue, 11 Dec 2007 20:14:00 +0000

You would think that having a long weekend capped off with a snow day and being trapped indoors with no power and nothing better to do than write would culminate in a buttload of words written. In my case, at least, you would be wrong.

I actually managed about 2,500 words over the weekend, which was more than I thought I did; but I wasted a lot of prime writing time shivering under about 30 pounds of blankets, listening to the sky fall and praying that it didn't fall on my house. Which, as it turns out, is not all that conducive to motivating the muse to move. Or the typing fingers, for that matter.

I need to step it up if I'm going to meet my NaNoFiMo goal. As of today, I'm about 6,000 words behind. But I've got a couple of important scenes under my belt, scenes I've been thinking about and envisioning for a few years now. They didn't turn out exactly as originally imagined (when do they ever?), but still, it feels pretty great to have 'em done.

I'm still writing. Mostly.

jeanjeanie — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 21:25:00 +0000

My NaNoFiMo project is still going strong... er, sorta if you don't count the fact that I haven't written anything today. I'm not haranguing you with word count updates this time around. If you're curious about that, there's a ticker over on the sidebar that's tracking my progress. It says my goal is 70,000 words, but that's only because the FiMo goal is at least 30,000, and I started with around 39,000. I think the finished novel will be considerably longer than that, though.

But I'll be damned if I'm not going to finish this draft this year. It's not like there's anything else going on this month--oh, wait.

Excerpt 2: More Hero Factor

jeanjeanie — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 21:45:00 +0000

The little bells jingled as he padded through the city, but still no one took notice of him. He made his way, unmolested by human, dog or other, to the alley near the studio where he had first conceived his plans. Once there, he blended right in; just another stray cat rooting through the trash. Of course, his prey wasn't a rat or a casually tossed out meal, and his purpose wasn't to be fed.

He didn't blame Claire for the collar, or hold its humiliation against her. It was his own fault that she found it necessary to keep track of him. He'd known he wouldn't be able to keep up this charade for ever. The bells heralded the end of it as surely as they heralded his arrival.

It was simple enough to slip out of the collar. Then all he needed was to wait. The other cats mostly ignored him, and he them. They weren't what he needed.

Then, at last, he spied his subject. A solid black cat, nearly identical to his present form, leaped down from a fire escape onto a nearby garbage bin. Its scent told the Pooka that it was male. Perfect. The Pooka stole silently to the bin, waited for the cat's attention to be thoroughly engrossed in the remains of a sandwich, and changed. His human hand shot out inhumanly fast and grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck. It hissed and spat at him as he retrieved the collar, scratching and biting as he fastened the damned thing around its neck. "Sorry, cat," he muttered, "but better you than me."

What to do next, he realized, he hadn't really thought through. He was naked in his current form, and trying to carry an angry cat home on foot was likely to be painful, not to mention painfully conspicuous. None of his other forms were conducive to safely conveying the struggling creature, either; he really needed hands for that. He would have to leave the cat and come back for it later. Looking around for something to hold it, he spotted a pile of empty boxes and milk crates. He righted one of the crates and stuffed the still-protesting cat inside, covering it with a flattened cardboard box and stacking more crates on top to weigh it down. "That should hold you."

"Dare I ask what you intend to do with that creature?" a voice asked behind him.

The Pooka suddenly became acutely aware of the vulnerability of his human nakedness, but he resisted the impulse to change. Instead he turned and, squaring his shoulders in defiance, faced his interrogator. "Is it any concern of yours?"

A tall, pale man with long, dark hair stood watching him, his narrow face a mixture of amused affection and pity. He wore a long, high-collared coat, belted at the waist, and held a pair of gloves in one hand.. Only his blazing yellow eyes betrayed his inhumanity. He walked forward and circled the Pooka, studying him, making him feel a level of humiliation that the little blue jingle-bell collar couldn't even touch. "I had heard you'd been bound by the Princess, but I had no idea she would place you in such low circumstance. To force you to impersonate a mortal." He didn't add anything else. He didn't need to. The disdain the notion inspired was evident in his tone.

"Aren't you impersonating a mortal as we speak?" asked the Pooka.

Standing in front of him, his brother shook his head in disgust. "I'm wearing a human form of my own devising. You know the difference. Still," he sighed, looking the Pooka up and down, "this body suits you. It's strong, well-proportioned and not unattractive. Although I'd have been tempted to make it taller."

"Careful, brother. You almost sound as though you approve."

An indignant snort told him all he needed to know. Still, his brother had to rub it in. "Approval is something you lost long ago. I'd have thought you'd have been devising ways to win it back all this time. You never fail to disappoint me, little brother."

"I never strive to do otherwise."

A tight smile crossed his brother's lips. "Most disappointing is the woman."

Tension coiled throughout the Pooka's entire body. "What woman?"

The look his brother gave him was both knowing and irritated. "Are you so disenchanted with your own race that you would risk the very essence of your being for a taste of this forbidden fruit?"

"I know not of which you speak," the Pooka stated flatly, "and neither do you."

"Please, brother. Don't embarrass yourself. My own eyes spied you with her." He sighed, and shook his head, his mouth drawn into a grimace of disgust. "I had thought you learned your lesson the last time."

His brother's tone was sharpened with a dangerous edge. Another sensation filled the Pooka, tightening the coils within him. It was not entirely foreign to him, but it was rare enough that it took him a moment to recognize it for what it was: fear. The feeling angered him, and he latched onto that anger, nursed it until it grew and overtook the other. Then he laughed. "You're making a fool of yourself, brother. The woman is necessary to this facade. She is an accessory. Nothing more."

"Is she now?"

Putting on his best air of nonchalance, he shrugged. He felt a pang of discomfort at denying Claire, but it was necessary. He had to believe himself that she meant nothing to him if he was to convince his brother. Her life might very well depend on it. "She is involved with the mortal I'm impersonating. She knows him well, knows his schedule and habits, and has proven extremely useful in helping me keep up the charade. She has no idea that I am not who I claim to be, and if the Princess' plan is successful, the real Chambers will return and she'll be none the wiser." He tilted his head and looked to the sky as if to consider. "Although, it does occur to me that Chambers might never return. That certainly wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen. I could go on enjoying his life as long as it holds amusement for me. Chambers is a celebrity. In this country, that practically makes him royalty."

"Well spoken, brother. And what of his woman? If he doesn't return, do you intend to make her yours as well?"

She is already more mine than she was ever his, his mind screamed. The thought startled him. He had no idea where it had sprung from. He hoped his brother hadn't seen him flinch. He raised an eyebrow. "The thought never crossed my mind. Really, brother. Her usefulness is far outweighed by her tediousness. It's not as though there's anything remarkable about the girl."

"Really? I thought she was quite a beauty, as mortals go." He smirked, and let his glance flicker downward. "When I saw you with her at the bar, your borrowed anatomy seemed to agree."

The Pooka thought he couldn't be more irritated. As it turned out, he could, but he didn't know which irritated him more; that his brothers were spying on him, or that he had been so wrapped up in Claire that he hadn't noticed. "All part of the act," he lied.

"I hope so." He moved into the Pooka's space and rapped his chest with the gloves. Biting his lip, his brother looked upward as though trying to remember something. "I can still hear the other girl... what was her name? Persimmon tree?"

"Persephone." The correction escaped before he could stop it.

"Ah, yes. That makes more sense, as human names go. I can still hear sweet, lovely Persephone as she was dragged away, pleading for your intervention. It was extraordinarily grating. All those piercing shrieks... I'd hate to have to experience it again."

The Pooka managed to keep perfectly still, all in an effort not to kill his brother then and there. Fratricide would ensure he was never allowed back home. "No, brother," he said, his tone cordial and absent of the coldness he felt, "I wouldn't want you to suffer so."

His brother smiled. "I'm glad to hear you say so." Then he frowned, examining the Pooka, and swept some debris off of his shoulder with the gloves. "I am doing this for your own good, of course. You may be a source of unending shame to our entire race, but it's still my place to look after you."

"To look after me?" the Pooka asked. "Or to make certain I don't bring even more shame to the family?"

His brother smiled. "Both." Then he exploded into a fluttering flock of blackbirds.

The Pooka watched as his much older and more talented brother made his exit, and rolled his eyes. He had always been in love with his own theatrics. Only once the birds were out of sight did all of the tension, anger and fear in him uncoil and allow him to relax. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He knew it was a human gesture of frustration, but it still made him feel marginally better.

They were watching him.

They were watching Claire.

As if it wasn't bad enough having to bow to Alathea's wishes and fulfill their bargain, now he also had to worry about pleasing the family -- or at least not displeasing them enough that they would see Claire as a true threat. As much as it pained him to have her angry with him, perhaps it was for the best. The sooner he delivered this decoy cat to her, the better. Then he'd be able to keep a safe distance and ensure that his brothers would keep away from her.

That prospect caused an empty feeling in his belly that he normally only felt upon thinking of home.

He opened his eyes, and sighed. Then he strode over to the crate and snatched the cat out of it. "Change of plan," he said, dropping it to the ground before it could scratch him. It hissed and ran down the alley. The pooka ran after it. He leaped into the air and flapped his great, black eagle's wings, then swooped down to grab the cat gently but firmly in both talons before turning toward his neighborhood.

He hoped Chambers would return home soon.