Author: ajunge

  • Leveling up

    I’m an eight-for-eight Nanowrimo winner. About every other year I go in with no idea, no inspiration, no outline. This was one of those years. All I had was a mildly unpleasant character and the LKFWriters’ Plot Twist Box of DOOOOOOOOOM! [0] Any time I got stuck or bored I’d draw another card.

    Every day I’d write my 1700 words and then not think about it for another 22.5 hours.

    I “won” on Saturday the 29th, killed off my character [1], validated my word count and stuck my notebook in a box, never again to see the light of day.

    Sunday, with time and little to do [2], I opened my calendar of writing prompts and 15 minutes later I had written a new story. It was short, less than 500 words, and unpolished, but it had all its fingers and toes. Beginning, middle, end, protagonist, setting, conflict, resolution.

    Huh. That’s never happened before [3].

    See, I’m good at thinking up characters and situations [4], but plots and structure are always hard. I can never think of an interesting antagonist, conflict, or response. But there it was, on the page, easy peasy.

    Yesterday I did it again. I’ll try again tonight. I wonder how long I can maintain the streak?

    This year’s Nanowrimo wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t all that fun, and it wasn’t exactly a swirling maelstrom of creative ecstasy and agony, but I’m pretty sure I leveled up my game.

    [0] AKA the Dare Box.
    [1] Trampled to death in a Zombie Walk/Fun Run populated by women he’d dated, then insulted on his blog.
    [2] All the people I’d normally hang out with on a Sunday afternoon were frantically pounding out their own last few thousand words.
    [3] No. Seriously. It hasn’t.
    [4] Bartender in an interdimensional speakeasy! City worker who maintains the municipal feng shui! Ten-year-old and her talking teddy bear in a Munchausian milieu!

  • Dear Comics

    It’s not you, it’s me.

    I want to fall in love with you, I really do. All of my friends say that you’re really great. And you are great, really. I’m just not feeling it.

    I just can’t get into the way that you tell stories.

    As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been attracted to text. I like well built paragraphs, with broad metaphors and strong descriptions that can carry a story safely across the great divide between author and reader. A clever simile, a well-crafted pun, will always make me smile. I have kind of a Thing for a confident narrative that introduces me to fascinating characters and takes me to exotic places. The right novel comes along, and I’m lost.

    I have experimented with comics in the past. Some of my favorite authors, particularly Neil Gaiman, are bi-genre, and in their company I’ve dipped my toe in the graphic waters. But I can’t pretend any more.

    When I open a graphic novel, I’m faced with page after page of lavish illustration, but all I can really see is the text. Unfortunately the text isn’t quite enough to carry the story. It’s mostly just dialog, with perhaps a dash of exposition. The lion’s share of description, mood, and theme are carried by the artwork, and I just don’t see it. Instead of carefully examining each page, each panel, I’ll find myself madly flipping pages, looking only at the speech bubbles, and by the end of the book I’ll be groaning in unfulfilled expectations, crying out, “That’s it? That’s all you can give me?” Excited by the prospect of a great story, only to have it come to a premature and unsatisfying end.

    Sometimes, on a second go around, I can force myself to go slow, carefully examine the artwork. I know you’ve worked hard on your appearance, comics, and I’d like to give you mad props for it, but I’m just not that kind of a girl.

    A novel, on the other hand, is long, and thick, and carries the promise of great satisfaction. A novelist knows how to create the mood, set the pace, and tickle my fancy just right.

  • Meals on Wheels

    Kendra enjoyed being a Meals on Wheels volunteer. She hadn’t lived in the city long, and her freelance job kept her busy working from home. Meals on Wheels gave her a reason every day to get dressed, go outside, and talk to people.

    She shared her usual route with Ryan, a beefy man with a rich round laugh and teeth that shone brightly against his brown skin. He was fond of telling stories, but as he told Kendra, it was far more important to listen. Particularly to their clients. “Some of them have family they haven’t seen in years. Some haven’t any family at all. For some, we are their family.”

    So Kendra made a point of always listening. Saul Kensington liked to regale her with bawdy tales of his misspent youth, probably hoping to shock her. Phoebe Sutherland— Ryan always called her Miss Phoebe— talked about the doings of her plethora of nieces and nephews. A few clients were chronically grumpy, speaking only to complain. Kendra tried to give them a sympathetic ear anyway. After a few months, Kendra felt she knew her clients better than she knew the people she had grown up with.

    Time had not been kind to the street. It had once been bustling and Victorian bourgeois elegant, but now the shop fronts that weren’t boarded up advertised mostly liquor, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. The rents weren’t quite cheap enough to attract the artists who were often the precursors to gentrification. At least three developers had drawn up grandiose plans to level the neighborhood in favor of some postmodern tribute to capitalism, but so far those schemes had gone nowhere.

    There was one resident who caught Kendra’s eye. A tiny, elderly woman, hunched with age, whom Kendra sometimes saw walking a little dog up and down the block. Other times the woman could be seen through her window, gazing down at the street, one hand caressing floppy ears.

    “Who is she?” Kendra asked Ryan. “She’s not one of our clients.”

    “That’s Miz Richards,” Ryan said. “She’s lived in that apartment for almost 70 years now, ever since she was a little girl. I’ve tried to get her to sign up a few times, but she always refuses. Too proud, perhaps.”

    “She looks lonely,” Kendra said.

    “Honey, the only people ’round here who aren’t lonely are you and me, and that’s because we have so many of our friends to visit before the end of the day.”

    One day Kendra was in that same building, trying to deliver a meal, only to be turned away by the man’s son, come to take him to Athens, Georgia, to die near his family. On impulse, with the meal in her hand, she knocked on Miz Richards’ door.

    “Who is it?” called the voice from within.

    “Ma’am, my name is Kendra. I’m with Meals on Wheels.”

    The door cracked open slightly. “I don’t take Meals on Wheels.”

    “I know that you’re not one of our usual clients, ma’am, but I happened to have an extra meal today and I wondered if you would like to have it. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

    The old lady opened the door a little wider and Kendra saw her pet. “What a sweet little dog! What’s her name?”

    “This is Greta. She’s been mine for a long time. Won’t you come in?”

    It was that simple. A kindly face, a meal, and a dog with floppy ears. After that, Kendra managed to add Miz Richards to her regular route. Any time she got a chance, she would sit and listen for a bit to stories of the street from long ago, of neighbors long gone or dead, of the tiny boutiques and shops that once lined the street.

    It wasn’t very long afterwards that when Kendra knocked, the only response was Greta whining and scratching at the door. Mindful of some of the stories she had heard from other Meals on Wheels volunteers, Kendra and Ryan called the building superintendent and asked to be let in for a welfare check.

    It looked as though Miz Richards had died peacefully in her sleep, and not too long ago. Kendra made sure that Greta’s food and water bowls were filled as the men from the coroner’s office carefully removed the body.

    One of the men asked if she was the next of kin.

    “No, I volunteer for Meals on Wheels. She didn’t answer her door today— that’s why we called it in. She has some family, but I don’t know who they are or how to contact them.”

    The building manager shrugged hopelessly at a lifetime of accumulated clutter. “All this is going to have to be cleared out,” he said. “I don’t have time to go through it all.”

    “Do you mind if we look?” Kendra asked. He gave her a key, and told her they had until the end of the week.

    She and Ryan spent a whole day looking through Miz Richards papers. The story they pieced together was a sad one. Her husband had died young. One son in prison, another had moved overseas. A daughter whose last Christmas card had been sent in 1995.

    They finally found the name and address of a grandson. When called, he said he hadn’t seen his grandmother since she was a child. He hadn’t even known she was still alive. He had no opinion on what to do with Miz Richards belongings— couldn’t they take care of it? He did agree to take the coroner’s phone number and make arrangements.

    Kendra ended up taking Greta home with her. The little dog sleeps at the end of her bed now. On rainy afternoons, Kendra will sit by her window, gazing down at the street, one hand caressing floppy ears.

  • Fallow Fields

    If you look through my journals for the past ten years or so, they will all say the same thing. February sucks, I’m not writing a thing, I’m not reading a thing, it’s too cold to go outside, all I do is go to work and watch crap television and go to bed at an hour where all the other grownups are thinking about heading out to spend time with friends. Why can’t humans hibernate, I wail, and would somebody please come wake me up when it’s spring? This year was no different.

    It’s a terrible, empty feeling when I can’t write. I’ll look at a writing prompt: “The color blue.” “Romance is in the air.” “What is your favorite TV show and why?” and not be able to write a single word. “The color blue— what does that even mean?”

    Worst of all is not being able to read, nothing more complicated than Facebook updates and aggressively inoffensive lifestyle blogs. I’ll pick out a book, something highly recommended, something I know I should like, and midway through each paragraph I’ll find myself staring at a blank patch of air in the middle distance, with no clue what I just read. Maybe, maybe, if the book is an old favorite I’ll be able to concentrate on it. “Reader” is an integral part of my identity. I don’t remember not knowing how to read, and not being able to hurts.

    I’m not kidding about the hibernation, either. In February all I want to do is lie under a lasagna stack of blankets and cats and stare at the back of my eyelids, mind totally blank. I’m not thinking. I’m not meditating—meditating would require me to do something. I’m just switched off for a while. About the only thing that will get me out of bed is when I have to pee, or I have to turn off the clock radio because they’re playing Garrison Keillor again.

    The thing is, I know there’s something going on back there, deep in my subconscious. All my creative energy is going somewhere, working hard on something. I’m just not allowed to see it yet.

    Then March peeks around the corner and things begin to get better. It’s still light our for a bit when I get home from work. The season softens from Frostbite to Mud. Daylight Savings Time arrives and without changing a thing I’m suddenly living an adult human schedule. I begin to read again, write again, outline and plan and plot and speak with my imaginary friends again.

    Things will get better. They always do. There are the faintest green shoots in fallow fields.

  • Handwriting Your Novel Part 3: Comfort and Legibility

    The number one comment I get from people when they see me handwriting large blocks of text is, “I could never do that! My arm would fall off!” Basically, they’re afraid of pain.

    Wimps.

    Like any physical skill, you have to practice, you have to prep, and you have to use an appropriate technique. Let me give you my A+ Rule #1 for avoiding 99.94% of all handwriting problems.

    Slow the fuck down.

    If you’re writing too fast, you’re scribbling and you’re going to tense up. You’re going to hold your pen too hard, you’re going to curl up over your notebook like a gargoyle with osteoporosis, and your handwriting will look like a Jackson Pollock painting. Slow your roll.

    “But wait,” you cry in existential angst. “I can’t possibly write as fast as the thoughts come! I’ll lose words!” To which I reply, “So what?”

    Your words will wait. The stampede of your words will circle back to stampede in front of you all over again. Some may escape, never to be seen again, but they’ll be replaced with other words. Better words. You’ll never be able to write, or type, or dictate as fast as thought. Stop thinking of it as a footrace—when it’s really a flirtation.

    My final word about pain is this: if any part of this hurts, you’re doing it wrong. You need to figure out what it is and change your technique. You might need to take a break, or sit in a different chair, or adjust the height or angle of your desk, or try a different pen, or even just get up and take a nice jog in the park for a while.

    You can sit or stand, doesn’t matter, as long as your back is straight and you’re comfortable. Do not hunch over your notebook like a dragon guarding his hoard. Sit up tall, feet on the ground or a footrest [0]. Office chairs are office chairs for a reason—they’re designed to support you for long-term sitting. But you can still use the dining room table, the couch, the comfy chair, or even in bed, as long as you can sit up fairly straight. Prop yourself up with pillows if you have to [1].

    You will need a hard surface, or at least a hard backed notebook. If you’re at a desk or table, that’s great. Otherwise, I recommend heading down to the craft store and picking up a good-sized lap desk, the kind where the pillow is a bean bag. They’re not terribly expensive and they add a lot of flexibility to your work space. I like the larger ones so my notebook doesn’t hang too much over the edge.

    For that matter, if you are using a desk/table/kitchen counter, clear that sucker off. Give yourself some room to spread out; you might find you’re more comfortable with your notebook farther away rather than stabbing you in the chest.

    A hundred years ago, professional copyists used a slanted desk for writing all day in relative comfort. I would personally love to have an adjustable drafting table, but unless I can find a nice one in the dumpster, it’s not going to happen. Some modern handwriting coaches recommend using a tabletop slant board. You can spend a couple of hundred to buy a nice one, DIY an ugly one for cheap, or shake all the beans in your lap desk to one side and plop it down on your tabletop.

    If your hand is cramping up, you’re probably holding your pen too tightly. If this is a habit, you may have to consciously retrain your grip, but it could also be that you’re using the wrong pen shape— too fat, too skinny, too heavy, too light, too cushiony, not cushiony enough…

    Another mistake leading to hand cramps is making your fingers do all the work. Your fingers are controlled by little muscles in your hand and forearm, which are great for precise movements but tire very easily. You want to use the larger muscles in your arm and shoulder to put your hand in the right position, and then your fingers form each letter. If the muscles in your shoulders and arms are tense, you’ll lose comfort and legibility.

    Take regular breaks to rest, roll your wrists and hands, stretch out your nick, and generally change position, particularly when you’re just starting out. You’ll need to get into condition before beginning any marathon writing sessions.

    I don’t know anybody who actually likes their handwriting. That’s because most of us try to write too fast and just scribble. I’ve noticed that a person with very neat handwriting takes the time to carefully draw each letter. Writing slowly and beautifully is a habit they’ve developed over their lifetime.

    Some people bemoan cursive as a dying art. I call bullshit. Cursive is supposed to be faster and neater, but it drives me nuts— there’s all those extra loops and backtracing. Today’s standard is more of a half-joined up print where you join letters when it makes sense and lift your pen otherwise.

    You can download all sorts of handwriting practice sheets aimed at homeschoolers, but I would avoid these. They’re boring. Instead, remember Rule #1, and practice on things like grocery lists.

    At some point you are going to want to input your writing into a computer. At first blush, this seems to be a dull time waster. However, this is actually a great opportunity to give your manuscript a close reading. Once you’ve typed it in, it’s easy to rearrange sentences and paragraphs and adjust your word choices. Typing is a chance to write a second, and usually vastly improved, draft.

    A typing stand, or a copyholder, is a must. Typing stands, which hold your notebook up at an angle where you can see it, used to be standard office equipment, but they’re harder to find now. A cat destroyed mine, but I discovered that a small tabletop easel that I bought at a craft store for another project works just great.

    Basically, try a bunch of stuff out until you find out what works. And happy handwriting!

    [0] Especially for short people. You can fake a footrest out of a couch cushion in an emergency, but my favorite inexpensive expedient is to duct-tape a stack of phone books or newspapers together.
    [1] Assuming you haven’t already used the pillows to build a blanket fort, which would be a cool writing space.

  • All My Best Writing Starts Out as Fanfic

    I am scheduled to give you a flash fiction today. It’s not going to happen.

    About a month ago, I discovered the TV show Supernatural, and immediately became obsessed [0]. All of my non-work, non-sleep time has been spent catching up on the glory of all things Winchester. There’s eight and a half seasons just in canon, and I haven’t even started looking at fan sites yet.

    The upshot of all this is when I sat down to start outlining a flash fiction, the only story screaming to get out of my head was a Supernatural fanfic. Which I will not publish, post, or allow to see the light of day. Ever. Don’t ask. But I’m writing it anyway, because it needs to be written.

    The truth is, all my stories start as fanfic. Worse, they’re the most horribly self-indulgent, wish-fulfillment, Mary Sue-riffic kind of fanfic. Take every trope of bad fanfic, and it’s probably there. It’s frankly quite humiliating, which is why I refuse to release it into the wild.

    I’ll write it, though. I’ll write it to get it out of my head. I’ll write it for the daily discipline of writing. I’ll write it to hone my craft. I’ll write it because it’s making me absurdly happy. I’ll write it because it is naked, and raw, and true.

    And someday I will take it apart and use the pieces in something that is completely mine. I’ll never be able to use the name Winchester, or an iconic classic muscle car, or making deals with crossroads demons [1]. But I’ll be able to write the secondary characters I’m finding. I’ll be able to write a Wild Hunt emerging from a crystal cave in the mountains of northern New Mexico. I’ll be able to write three teen boys, drunk for glory, and thoughtless for it, too [2]. I’ll be able to write a Model 1913 Patton saber as an iconic weapon for a lady. I’ll be able to write the role of quartermaster in the war between good and evil. I’ll be able to write business cards sporting titles such as Senior Combat Folklorist [3] and Research Teleologician. I’ll be able to write a dog with sacred symbols marked in the brindle of her fur, where after you chant a blessing over her, drools demons to death. I’ll be able to write a hero who says, “I’m not saving you this time. You’re just going to have to suck it up that terrible, terrible things are going to happen to you because you are stupid and you make bad decisions.”

    These things are mine. They’re only inspired by intellectual property theft. This is how the creative process works for me. I steal stuff from other, better writers, edit out their characters and voice, throw it in the mixmaster with a couple dozen other similarly hijacked ‘verses, sign my name to the bottom, and there it is. An “original” piece of art.

    [0] Yes, I know. I’m way late to this particular party.
    [1] I am stealing one idea—using LARPing as a practical training in urban fantasy combat skills.
    [2] They are provisionally named Kenny, Kyle, and Kartman—Kenny dies, of course.
    [3] Hat tip also to Charles Stross on this one.

  • Handwriting Your Novel Part 2: Choose Your Weapon

    This is where we get to talk about the good stuff—pens, pencils, and paper. I am not afraid to admit my own love of fine stationery; in fact, I believe a good office supply store is one of the two best venues for creative problem solving [0]. Your choice of writing implements can make or break your handwriting experience. There is nothing more frustrating than a pen that skips, or paper that accepts too much ink or too little. On the other hand, when you have just the right pen on good quality paper, the words flow effortlessly from mind to page.

    There are a huge variety of writing implements to choose from because it’s very much a matter of personal taste. Two general rules apply—try everything at least once, and you get what you pay for.

    If you are lucky enough to work in a cube farm or other office-type environment with a well-stocked supply closet, there’s your chance to try before you buy. Raid the supplies for one of everything—because you’re going to put back the things you don’t use, right? Right? Try them out, and you’ll get a good feel for the things that work for you—the size and shape of the grip, weight and balance, type of ink or lead. If you see an interesting new pen or pencil on a coworker’s desk, ask if you can try it for a minute. Then give it back [1]. You’re looking for a pen or pencil that feels good in your hand, doesn’t skip or smear, where you don’t hold it in a death grip, and is well-sized and balanced. In general, fat, contoured, and cushioned grips will be more comfortable than a thin cylinder.

    Pencils.

    The big advantage to pencils is that they come with built-in error correction features; that is, you can erase a pencil mark. I use them for writing narrative because I’d rather erase and replace text, maintaining narrative flow, than deal with crossouts. Pencils are easy to use and will write upside down and on almost any kind of surface. On the other hand, they require more care and maintenance than pens. You can’t go wrong with the classic #2 wood pencil, and I once had a fondness for the large pencils intended for small children; but these days I prefer mechanical pencils with contoured rubber grips and a .7 mm B lead.

    About lead—lead ranges from 2B (very soft and a dark, smudgeable line), to B, HB/#2 (the standard), H, and all the way up to 4H hardness which will give you a very precise, thin line. Wood pencils are nearly always HB/#2 unless you buy an art or drafting set. You can get leads for mechanical pencils in B, HB, or H hardnesses. Pencils and leads come in .5 mm or .7 mm sizes; pick the size appropriate for the size of your handwriting.

    Wood pencils require a sharpener, and the little blade gets dull pretty quickly. You might also want other accessories; cushy grips or replacement erasers. You will definitely get what you pay for here— dollar store specials tend to fit poorly and perform worse [2]. My favorite eraser is a handheld one called Black Pearl—instead of being the usual rhomboid shape, it’s oval and tapered all the way around. Using it maintains the taper rather than obliterating it, so you always have a sharp edge available for precision erasing.

    Pens.

    Pens are all about the ink. Ballpoint pens have an oil-based ink, which is why you need some serious solvents (like hairspray or WD-40) to remove stains. Again, you get what you pay for—a $5 refillable pen will give much better performance than a dozen-for-$1.49 cheapie. However, they’re easy to find, relatively inexpensive, and work well on all types and quality of papers. The ink dries quickly, making it good for left-handers. You can even fake a feather pen by binding the chopped-off guts of a Bic to a turkey quill for that extra-special old-timey look.

    The ink in a gel pen is an emulsion of oil, water, and pigment. Gel pens are notoriously finicky— if you don’t hold them fairly upright they tend to skip, and they smudge more easily and dry out much faster than oil-based inks. On the other hand, the colors are amazing, you can get pale, opaque colors that are visible on dark papers, and they don’t bleed or feather as badly on pulp paper as liquid inks. I suggest you try before you buy. Check out the quality of the cap—if the cap comes off in your bag or drawer, you’ll soon have a useless plastic stick.

    Liquid ink is what you find in rollerball and fountain pens. The colors are great, and you get a very smooth line with almost no dragging for effortless writing. They don’t get along with water, though, and will wash right off unless specially formulated. Another problem with liquid inks is they are choosy about the paper they will play with. Inexpensive pulp or thin papers will soak up too much ink, leading to feathering (the line is blurry and thicker than the pen nib) and bleeding (the line is visible on the other side of the page). Try doing the crossword in the newspaper and you’ll end up with a blot. I’ve used hand-laid papers that had such a rough tooth they can’t accept liquid ink at all. But the combination of liquid ink with a thick, smooth-finished paper cannot be beat.

    An example of your basic high-quality rollerball pen is the Pilot Precision V5. Great colors, great performance, affordable, and a line fine enough that I can use it for copyediting because I can fit corrections between the lines printed on the page.

    I’ve made no secret of my love for fountain pens. I wrote many pages with a pair of Waterman Phileas pens; when they wore out after many years of abuse, I was heartbroken to find Waterman had discontinued the model. These days I work with a pair of Lamy Safari pens, one with a fine nib for everyday writing, and one with an extra-fine nib and filled with turquoise ink for copyediting [3]. These are made of durable molded plastic, you can order spare nibs and a converter, and they’re surprisingly affordable. Pilot makes a disposable fountain pen that’s good enough for getting your feet wet; it’s major disadvantage is you can’t refill it.

    Fountain pen lovers are the writing equivalent of gear-heads; you can geek out for hours on the difference between flexible steel or hard iridium, fine line or calligraphy nibs, the pros and cons of cartridges versus converters, and finding just the perfect kind of ink. A word to the wise: DO NOT PUT INDIA INK IN YOUR FOUNTAIN PEN. India ink is made with shellac and will damage or destroy your pen, and should only be used with dip or specialized drafting pens.

    Fountain pens are the ultimate try-before-you-buy purchase. A good one can range from $30 to $300 dollars (more than that and you’re buying it for its jewelry qualities), and so can a bad one. If you can visit a pen shop, you should be able to try them out, and try out various brands and colors of inks as well.

    Cartridges are sealed plastic tubes filled with ink; you open up the pen and press the cartridge onto the business end. If you have a converter, you fill it with bottled ink. It doesn’t hold as much ink as a cartridge, but is perfect if, like me, you like to change colors a lot.

    Fountain pen ink can be a little odd—different colors from the same brand can behave quite differently on the page, depending on their formulation. I have a dark blue ink that’s a champion, the medium blue of the same brand feathers badly, the pink can skip, and the scarlet went bad. The black was semi-permanent and tended to dry and clog the nib, so I got rid of it and am trying a different brand.

    Paper.

    Paper is another you-get-what-you-pay-for. It’s worthwhile to be picky about paper quality. Composition books you can buy by the dozen and still have plenty of money for lunch are tempting, but in my experience they bleed liquid ink so badly you can only use one side of the page (this is not an issue if you use pencils or ballpoints). The big factors in paper are finish and thickness. Thin, pulpy papers bleed worse than thicker, smooth finished papers—unfortunately this includes lots of recycled papers. Never buy paper without feeling it first; usually there’s a pack on the shelf where somebody has already torn a hole in the plastic wrap.

    Wide rule paper is good if your handwriting is big or you want to “double-space,” leaving room for in-line edits. College rule gives you more words per page. Quad rule paper is geek-chic and good for charts, but unless the lines are very narrow, hard to read from. You can also find unlined or dotted paper, or paper printed with specialty margins.

    Then there’s the issue of the binding. Journals and composition books have permanent bindings that force linearity; you can’t just rip out or rearrange pages. Tablets are designed to have the pages removed as they’re used up, so you’ll have to find a binder or other way to keep your pages together. I realized recently that the 300 sheet pack of looseleaf filler paper we used to do our homework on has gone extinct, and I mourn it. Looseleaf paper is great when you’re editing and want to rearrange/rewrite/replace pages. Spiral notebooks are great, in my opinion; you can tear out pages if you need to, or they can stay all together in a nice package. Lefties often complain about the wire getting in the way of their wrists, but who says you have to start your notebook at the “front?” Flip it over and use the left-hand (verso or back) page instead. I usually have three notebooks going at any one time— a fancy hardbound journal for my personal diary, a composition book for notes and brainstorming, and a spiral notebook for novel narrative.

    [0] The other is a really good hardware store.
    [1] Because you are an honorable and decent person who would never steal office supplies.
    [2] Cheap rubbery grips can even make your fingers smell like condoms. Yech.
    [3] I ordered the pen with a red barrel so I can grab the dreaded red pen, but I use turquoise ink so that my coworkers can tell my copyediting notes from other reviewers’.

  • Handwriting Your Novel— Part One

    Neil Gaiman does it. J. K. Rowling, too. Truman Capote, Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare— most of the greats of English literature have done it.

    Yet when I tell people that I write my novels in longhand they react as though I am some kind of exotic creature. Writerii masochisteria, perhaps.

    (more…)

  • Kate Griffin, Matthew Swift series: A Madness of Angels, The Midnight Mayor, The Neon Court, The Minority Council. (Book review)

    Once upon a time, a few years ago, Matthew Swift had a no good, horrible, very bad day. With the help of the blue electric angels he got better, and decided to do something about that.

    These are the tales of Matthew Swift, an urban sorcerer in modern-day London. He doesn’t use the traditional materials of fire, water, air, and earth; instead he uses mains power, gas, tarmac, and diesel exhaust to work his magics. He lives in the heartbeat of London; his feet quicken at rush hour and stroll on early Sunday mornings. He understands London’s denizens, the beggars, the pigeons, the urban foxes; the various clans and gangs, the Tribe, the Neon Court, the Whites, the Beggar King; the spells that can be cast with spray paint and a subway pass and power plucked from a street lamp. The magic is as modern as it is fantastic; golems are made of litter, a frustrated civil servant can inadvertently call forth primal forces of destruction, graffiti is used for wards and warnings, blue electric angels born of human passions live in the telephone wires.

    In Book One, Matthew seeks revenge for his own death, raining doom and destruction upon his foes. In Book Two, he finds himself suddenly tasked with saving the City from some unknown evil, which is ridiculous because after the destruction of Book One, what madman would give Matthew any authority whatsoever? In Book Three, Matthew must attempt diplomacy in order to avert a war, which is again ridiculous because the last time he tried to negotiate a peace the building fell down. And in Book 4, he faces the most implacable enemy of all— a civil service job.

    Griffin has built a richly textured world. Her magical London is as much a character as any other in the book. Her prose is descriptive and poetic and deserves to be savored. The magic is based on modern, not primeval, metaphors; so are the fantastic creatures, who have adapted to urban life as easily as the rats and cockroaches have.

    I just cannot tell you how much I love these books. They’re a lot like Neil Gaiman and very little like Harry Dresden. I love the language; I love the metaphors that build the magical spells. I love that Matthew and the blue electric angels both live in his skull and you can tell which one is speaking by whether its in first person singular or plural. I love how Matthew buys his clothes at charity shops because he wants the soles of his shoes worn just enough that he can feel the texture of the street below his feet. I love the clues sprinkled throughout the story that only become explicable at the end. I love watching Matthew perform his spells; to gain audience with the Beggar King, sit on a piece of cardboard by the side of the road and hopefully jingle coins in a styrofoam cup; to escape an eldritch horror summoned from the recycling bins, buy a Tube ticket, enter the station, and read the incantation (terms and conditions) on the back, which expressly forbids entry without a valid ticket. I love that the most powerful sorcerer in London is regarded in the magical community as something of a tosser.

    There’s a second series, too, Magicals Anonymous. The main character in this one is Sharon, a barista who founded a Facebook group very nearly named Weird Shit Keeps Happening to Me and I Don’t Know Why But Figure I Need Help, and runs support meetings in the church hall for, among others, a vampire with hygiene issues, a druid apprentice allergic to magic, a troll who just wants to be liked, and a banshee who is a lover of modern art. Magicals Anonymous is a little more tongue in cheek, mostly because Sharon doesn’t take herself nearly as seriously as Matthew does.

  • Six word stories

    Dragons exist. Don’t ask questions, RUN!

    Cat: Human sleep deprived. Mission accomplished.

    Superpowers? Radioactive guppy bite. Stop laughing!

    Cute-powers from radioactive kitten bite. Awwwwwww……

    I fail to resist his pain.

    You never forget your first murder.

    Poverty, not cancer, killed my friend.

    Breaking!! World! Hell! Handbasket! You “decide.”

    “Don’t be evil.” I laugh, maniacally.

    Psychiatrist’s shrunken head collection intrigues me.

    The money he stole— well spent.

    Interdimensional portal. “Just a quick peek….”