My God is Dead and Now I'm Bored

There's an epic in my file cabinet. It spans generations of characters. It has a meticulously designed universe with specific laws, long history, multiple species, researched (although rather speculative) mechanical devices and biological classifications. At its premise it's about Gods and worshippers and the few outsiders drawn into political intrigue, spiritual awakenings, abuse, and madness. By its end it is rife with cynicism and switched allegiances both internally and for the reader.

I have published bits of this in short stories, flash fiction and my (so far solo) novel. The feedback is usually quite good. People always say they can't wait to read the rest.

I should probably get on that.

But in the meantime, I've finished it. It's done. In all its little drafty bits and pieces. I know how it ends. I know who "wins" who "loses" and all the crap between those points. There is no going back to make alternate endings, middles or anything. The story is complete.

And here I sit. I'm like a moviegoer still in her seat after the credits have rolled and the lights have come up. I know it's done and no sequel will come. But I want MORE!

If I spend the rest of my life getting this stupidly long set of stories polished and published, I'll probably have to live to a hundred. There's a lot of work to do. And don't get me wrong, I love writing, love rewriting and will enjoy this very much…but the story is still done for me and that will always be a little sad.

Nevermore…or at least not today.

I'm not supposed to write today.

Like, at all. Nothing.

Today, I'm supposed to do laundry; buy groceries; set up meetings with people I've made paintings for; see if the repairs are done on my mother's car (and pick it up if they are); call a friend who needs to hear from me; cook some soup. I'm supposed to be a productive non-writer.

Does the blog count? I'm supposed to try to keep up a blog every day (totally against my nature) so that there is some more of "me" available to be seen should anybody want to see me online—which only makes sense, since I don't have a lot of drunken sex videos out there to come to light. Blogging appears to be the only way to get to know me—well, aside from all the broadcasting bits; some silly scandals about my employment (yeah, there were some—kids these days); and some copyright stuff; maybe a CRTC hearing or two.

Anyway. The thing I want to do most is sit at my computer and write down the story that is currently swirling through my consciousness and I can't!

Guess what: If I could; if I suddenly had a block of time where I could sit down and compose what I'm sure is a hell-banger of a tale…there'd be no words typed at all.

Writing is self destruction in typographical form.

Readers!

Readers are the cat's meow.

They volunteer to look at your mess while it's still a mess and give you the gold nuggets that will turn it into the masterpiece it needs to be in order to release you (however temporarily) from the certainty that you hold only trite hackwork inside you and will forever be damned as a writer and a person.

Some of them are afraid to hurt your feelings.
Oh, gentle souls, your soft-tipped word arrows cannot wound me. I see you as the wooden swords and rubber bullets of the training fields. You are never my enemy, always the drinking buddies I commiserate with after a long day listening to the "Sarge of submission guidelines whose harsh demands frighten us all.

Some of you are afraid to piss me off.
That's SO funny! Unless you tell me that fracking is the only way to go, or that black people are the "real racists" or that women oppress men, you're not going to piss me off (seriously, just leave that stuff alone).

Critiquing a piece of art (writing or visual art) means telling the artist what works and what doesn't. When you submit a draft for review and critique, you benefit FAR, FAR more from people telling you the bad news than any amount of "It was great!" and "I loved it!" because you are given an opportunity to fix problems before your story hits the public, or the publisher if people dare to tell you where they are. You can't fix anything if you don't know it's there (and it's amazing what you don't notice when you review it yourself).

So, bring it on, readers. Tell me why and how and where my story sucks. Tell me now, not after I've sent it off for hopeful publication. Be straightforward and fear no anger or anxiety from me. I will be grateful for every comma correction, every plot-hole assumption, every word-choice debate.

I promise you, I will either accept or ignore your advice without a single bit of animosity. The ONLY thing that will EVER throw me off, will ever worry or upset me, ever cause me to avoid or grumble about you is if you say nothing at all.

New!: The Storm Fairy

So, well, another project. I like this one lots. New direction, which is also cool.

This one is nearly finished. It's a children's story—a chapter book—and fairytale. I like fairytales. I used to have a radio show where I read a traditional fairytale every week. I've got a little section of my library that is devoted to fairytale books…of course, I have another section of my library devoted to bathroom renovation books, so it's not like there are any real standards (that's a joke. there are standards…although I do have a bathroom reno section).

What follows is an excerpt from the story. It's really most of the first chapter—which, I guess, is just a tease, because nothing but set-up happens in the first chapter. Oh well.


It's about 860 words. The whole tale is a little over 6,000 words, which is just within the count needed for a chapter book. I could go longer, there are places I might develop some more, but I'm pretty happy with the read right now.

There's also pictures. But that's the bad news. It appears, publishers prefer manuscripts with no illustrations. They like to hire their own. I'm going to send them in regardless, separately clipped and titled as kind of a companion, but I will provide what they're looking for: just the script, typed. They can toss the illustrations in the trash if they want.

I had fun. Let's hope it wasn't just a happy little distraction from what I'm supposed to be doing. Hell, let's hope I get published again, regardless of whether it's words, pics, or words and pics.

Here's the excerpt:

***

Once upon a time there was a tiny village nestled in a deep green valley surrounded by towering mountains. The people who lived in the village were very happy, and very hard working. Their fields grew wheat and corn and their gardens grew all manner of vegetables. They tended sheep and fished in the nearby river. They kept their village neat and tidy, and everything they built, they built well.

Every grown-up had a job and every child, as soon as they were old enough, had chores. Some children helped plant gardens. Some children helped make chairs and tables. The grown-ups taught them what to do so when the children grew up, they could do those things just as well.

Every family in the village had their own little stone cottage with a thatched roof. Each cottage was the same size and the same shape and had the same furniture inside. They were all very well made, very sturdy and very orderly.

Any time a new house needed to be built, the villagers who were stone masons would gather the best stones and build strong walls; the carpenters would make handsome doors and windows, rugged shutters and sturdy roof beams; the cabinet makers would build wooden shelves and tables and chairs and beds; and the thatchers would bring bundles of straw and tightly weave it into a thick roof. The metalsmith would come with latches for the windows, pots to cook with in the fireplace and a cheery little metal lantern to hang by the door to be lit whenever the family was home, so neighbours would know they were welcome to visit.

With so many talented people in the village, every house was always the best house any house could be. They had to be, because sometimes wild storms blew through the village. 

In the spring there were rain storms when sheets of rain fell from the curling edges of the thatch. In the summer came loud lightning storms when thunder would shake the stone walls. 

In the fall, the wind storms blew all around the cozy cottages, plastering leaves to the doorposts. 

And in the winter, came blizzards. They were loud and wild and full of snow that would pound against the shuttered windows and leave the village buried sometimes right up to the roofs.

Whenever the storms blew down from the mountains all the villagers would run into their cottages and call their children inside.

They would close all the shutters on all their windows.

 And they always made sure to put out their cheery lanterns.

Through the long stormy nights, in every cottage, each family would pull their chairs close to the little fire in the dark and tell stories about the Storm Fairy and her wild, wild storms. 

Little Erin’s father told the best stories of all the parents in the village.

“The Storm Fairy, lives high in the mountains,” he would say.  “She makes all the storms that ever blow. If she would stay in the mountains it would be sunny in our village all the time, but she never stays where she should. 

“She comes down the valley to walk through our little town, looking for a light to tell her she’s welcome. But she brings her storms with her and so she is never welcome here. The winds she creates scatter everything we own all around, the rain soaks through everything and floods the fields.”

“Is the Storm Fairy in the village, tonight, father?” little Erin asked one spring night when the rains pelted against the shutters.

“If you listen very closely,” her father replied, “you can hear her wailing and crying in the winds.”

“Can I see her?”

“You can’t see out the shutters, dear,” her mother said. “And we must keep the shutters closed.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason we put out our lamps and stay inside. We can’t let the Storm Fairy know we are home, or she will want to come in.”

Her father smiled and winked at her. “Come sit with us by the fire and listen to stories, Erin.”

But Erin really wanted to see the fairy. She found a little gap in the shutters on the window by the door. It was big enough to peek through, and she could reach it if she stood on a chair.

So that is exactly what she did. She stood on her toes on a chair by the window, peeking out the crack in the shutters all through the storm.

Erin stood for a very long time, listening to the hard winds blow and the rain pour off the thatch roof, until she finally thought she heard a wailing cry in the wind. 

She looked even harder through the tiny crack and listened even more closely. She squinted her eye and turned her head one way and the other.

“I see her!” she finally announced. For there, out in the terrible storm she could see a strange young woman struggling to walk against the wind. She wore only a simple green dress. Her hair was every colour there ever was, and it whipped around her head in wild wet locks.

“She’s sad,” Erin whispered.

***

Well, yes, there's more. Some of it is magic. Some of it is learning how to be a good friend.

I talk more about the art side of this in my "oh, so artsy" blog thingy, here. I haven't really paid attention to anchor points thus far on this blogsite. I'll come back when I work it out and better connect the two. Luckily, I don't post lots, so it's not hard to find.

Arrgh!

No, really. It can get worse.

I've never been good with the daily reporting (weekly, monthly, whatever) of things in my life. Oddly, I can talk non-stop about the most inane and minute details of my day with anybody who so much as makes the simple mistake of asking how I am, but to write it out and push the ol' "Publish" button is like sawing off and handing over the very fingers I type with.

So why do I now have two blogs?

Ostensibly, it's because I have two purposes for blogging. One is to talk about writing, the other art. Heck, why don't I have three or eight? I do at least eight things well…if you include dishes. I tried, but could not see putting all the stuff about mushroom charts (even though they were quite darn spiffy) on a bog I intended for stories and writing issues.

Regardless. I now have two blogs to write; two blogs to guilt over; two means of expressing angst. At least on one of them there'll be lots of pictures.

All this is my way of introducing here: Organized Diffusion Which should consistently be about my studies as a graphic designer. We'll see.

Coming up really very shortly: The anthology that rocked the end of the world.

The Luddite says Wha?

Seriously, What?

How do blogs become anything more complex than an upside down list of posts?

Her Golden Aura

Flash fiction is supposed to be 1,000 words or less, but when sffworld first started running their flash contests, they were a little lax about that. This story is one I submitted for April of (I think) 2009 and it's 1250 words. I'm posting it here for giggles, but if I got comments on it one way or the other (I take criticism well) it would be splendid.

Her Golden Aura

The Goddess forbade communicating with the dead. The souls of her people were drawn to her holy gate for an eternity of bliss. To call them back meant to deprive them of her glory and pollute the spirits of the living. The zealots warned that Kuipes should not even handle the bodies of the deceased, “lest their spirits cling to the attendant hands.” When the Empire was alive, that task was left to other humans.

Dr. Tulu was now well on the way to a godless abyss. He had been asked by his captain to autopsy a corpse found on the bridge of a frozen ship that had been drifting for centuries. He could not refuse without explanation. 

Like a nightmare parable, the spirit of the dead man had woken. It left its decomposing husk and attached itself to him. Now it haunted him.

(I’m not a spirit.)

So it claimed.

(I’m not a dead Kuipe. I was Anul’s companion. We met in the deep. He…acquired me. He lived his span, then died. I had nowhere to go until you touched him. You are as devotedly deluded as he, I see.)

Perfect. The dead Anul consorted with demons and damned himself in the deep, then died and let the demon find a new Kuipe to corrupt.

(Determined to be miserable, aren’t you?)

Misery already defined Tulu’s life. His people, long rulers of this ungrateful spattering of planets, had been overthrown two centuries ago, outlawed and hunted to near extinction. Survivors hid themselves among other humans to wait for signs from their now silent Goddess.

(Too busy for her children? Tsk.)

Tulu winced and leaned forward in the uncomfortable chair, wishing he had never broken the taboo that invited this fiend.

(Cast more insult and I won’t save you.)

“It’s a test, Dr. Tulu.” The interrogator looked bored. He had been through this already with most of the crew. Docking with a Kuipe Deep-Systems ship in tow was a guarantee for military investigation, but there was a huge reward for them still on the books.

“What kind of test?” 

“Tell me what this is.” The interrogator slid a photograph across the bare metal table.

“A picture.”

“What do you see in the picture?” The interrogator’s name badge said “Hook,” ironically enough. “Don’t leave anything out.”

(This is a trap.)

Tulu already knew it was a trap. Hook was hunting live Kuipes that might have infiltrated the crew. What he could not understand was the usefulness of a picture.

(Damn. Because you can’t see her.)

“What?”

“What is this a picture of, Dr. Tulu?” Hook growled.

(You cannot see her. He can.)

“Her?” Tulu could not track who said what for a moment. The slip was fortunate. The interrogator looked a little less tense. 

(Good catch. But winning this will take more than luck.)

Damn, demon! Tulu thought. Why is “her” something good to say?

Tulu’s mental argument must have made him look flustered. Hook frowned as he leaned back in his chair. He was still suspicious. “Describe what you see.”

(Her. Capital H. Your goddess. We have a problem.)

It seemed cruel that the demon would not assist him.

(That’s the problem. I don’t have eyes. I have to use yours. And yours only prove what you are.)

Tulu did not know what to do.

(Stall. Talk about anything but the picture.)

“What the hell is this stupid picture supposed to prove?” Tulu found himself nervously twisting the plain gold ring he wore as his only religious token. They were common enough. Non-Kuipes did not understand the significance of the metal.

“Describe what you see,” Hook said.

“I need to understand what kind of test this is.” Tulu was amazed to find himself pulling off the ring. His nerves never got that bad.

“Why?” Hook let the accusation hang unspoken.

“Because! Because I’m a scientist. I’m a doctor. Tests have to make sense to me. And I’ve never seen this t-type of test before.” Horror shot through him as the ring flicked out of his fingers and rolled across the table. “I--sorry--I spent a lot of time studying these sorts of things. In psychology. In school.”

Hook was unfazed. He caught the ring before it rolled off the table, pinched it between his thumb and finger and stared at its surface. “What do you see in the picture?”

“Uh, could I…?” Tulu put his hand out. “Sorry. Nerves, I guess.”

Hook handed the ring back without hesitation.

(The picture is of a woman in a stone courtyard, looking at the camera.)

Tulu was astounded. The demon must have travelled from one man to the other through the ring. Strange that it would come back.

(I like you.)

“Anyway. It’s a picture of a woman in a courtyard looking into the camera.” He could plainly see it was not; that there was no woman there.

(Say exactly what I tell you, no matter what.)

“Go on,” Hook said.

(There are climbing vines behind her. She has strange eyes.)

“There’s vines, and…” He tried to disguise a deep breath. “Strange eyes on her.”

(She looks very composed. She is calm.)

Calm—a word that carried religious weight. It was close to one of Her titles. “She’s composed…caalmm.”

(She’s surrounded by a glowing aura.)

“Ack!” The demon was describing the Goddess. Describing her plainly, like an object!

(Maintain yourself! Say there’s a light flare.)

“Sorry! Little hair or something.”

(There’s an effect to the picture.)

“Th-there’s a lighting effect.”

Hook’s voice was cold. “Do you see any colour?”

(It’s yellow.)

Something snapped inside Tulu, something basic. He wondered if this was how Kuipes died at the hands of captors. How could he possibly survive?

(Call it mustard.)

Mustard was a food product from Earth. He almost wept with relief, since Her Holy Golden Self wore no condiments. “Mustard.”

“Mustard…?”

“Wouldn’t you say? Look, how much longer is this test supposed to go on? Do you want the fine details of the species of vine, or the style of…her dress?”

(Hush. Only lucky if he does not. Say no more.)

Hook smiled thinly. “A guard will escort you back to your ship.”

Tulu remained silent until he was back in his cabin. Inside his head, his dance with sin tore at his soul.

(Far too melodramatic.)

He had nothing more on hand than his fist to pound the wall. “That was a test of religion!” he whispered harshly.

(Almost correct: your “goddess” gave you a biological imperative. You cannot perceive her.)

He flung himself onto his narrow bench. “It’s forbidden.”

(Forbidden to try. Impossible to do. You are modified humans, built to worship, hard-wired not to see her, not to believe her image can be perceived, portrayed, even described.)

“There really was a woman in that picture?” 

(Predominantly.)

He stared at the opposing mirror. He saw himself clearly enough, dishevelled and exhausted. “It was a courtyard…vines…”

(Background details. One assumes Kuipes get caught up listing everything but the woman. Effective test: simple, portable and a dead give-away.)

Tulu was fighting a growing nausea that began during the interrogation. “I could…almost see…something…towards the end.”

(Interesting. Perhaps it is less a test, and more a conversion technique.)

It was then Tulu lost the contents of his stomach. This was the moment, he would remember later, when his soul was finally and truly wrenched from Her Golden Aura.

(Oh, please. So melodramatic.)

Violence and the Modern Comic

I recently attended the Calgary Comic and Entertainment Expo. Not my first time at a major con, but certainly my first time trapped like a herring in one.

—Seriously, sent round and round in circles:
"Can I get out this exit?"
"No." Points to the right. "Go out the corral."
Goes right. "Can I get out this exit?"
"No." Points to the right. "Go out the corral."
Goes right. Reaches the end of the auditorium. "I'm leaving."
"Can't get out this way." Points left. "Go out the corral."
"Where the hell's the corral?!"
Points diagonally through the massive crowd to the opposite corner of the building which was much closer to the first attempt door and DEFINITELY NOT LEFT. "It's over there."—

When I say this was a big event, I'm saying it was nuts. They were expecting 30,000 people and got 50,000 or something like that. It was wall to wall geek, standing room only freak, complete with outrageous costumes, unending lines, deafening sound effects, massive art, expensive indulgences in fandom and unnervingly polite behaviour from just about everybody.

Gathering the ST TNG stars all in one locale was probably under appreciated as a draw. It was rather a neat thing to happen and I'm sure a lot more casual fans turned out just to see it.  But the con has apparently been getting bigger and bigger just on its own. It's not that old according to the locals. Edmonton's predates it, but is growing at a much steadier pace.

source: wikipedia

Regardless, I was there to see who might sell my book or be interested in my other work, so spent the majority of my time walking the venders' floor. There were little successes, little frustrations and a lot of trepidation as I made my way from booth to booth.

I knew these folks were busy, so I stayed polite and waited for customers to be served. When reception was good, it was great. When not, well, it's a good thing that I already believe that the Simpson's Comic Book Guy is a real person who has been (un)successfully cloned or I might have come out of there convinced there was something wrong with me.

I came across this booth where nobody was standing. There were two older women inside amid a lot of books. Turns out they represented Alberta Libraries. It's not as sad as it sounds, all the booths like this one were finding it hard to attract attention. If you weren't selling costumes or comics or action figures, offering the services of hollywood horror makeup or (I kid you not) fantasy escort "for a night that is out of this world" you were ignored.

I stopped and we started talking. They were impressed that their local convention had drawn people from as far away as Fredericton. I didn't tell them about the folks from California I'd been speaking with an hour before. I learned on Sunday and Monday that Calgarians were genuinely surprised by their raging success (sometimes out of control) convention.

I was lucky to get inside both days. Lots of people who bought passes were turned away. Once in, regardless of how tired or hungry I got, I had to stay or risk not getting back in. There were huge lines for everything, including the overpriced food (plate with potato chips, pulled pork sandwich and pop=$12; regular coffee, prepackaged muffin=$4.56). When I needed to rest I went to a panel discussion—not the Steampunk ones I wistfully wanted to see, because the line up to get into them was an hour at least and that sometimes didn't get you in the door.

So, there sat I, one of possibly twenty people listening to a publisher (Avatar Press) talk about how writers and artists can break into the field, specifically through them. Big FYI for you, they meant artists for the writers they already have. New writers with no artist have no real chance at all.

That's cool. But I might be interested in getting a comic published. What could I do? I learned from their long list of published examples that I need to write something violent, comedic and/or full of sexual innuendo. Sigh. Comics are indeed a teenaged boy realm.

That's okay. I have a couple of characters who are inclined to violence.  They're not all that funny, and one of them is utterly asexual, but hey. The wheels started turning. By the time I was wrapping up my rounds for the day I had a general idea of plot and setting. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could find myself an artist ('cause, you know, writers aren't worth a pinch of poo) and work something up.

But, as violent as my characters can get, I have never set out to write the story equivalent of chum (slimy, bloody bait to stir up a shark's hunger). I don't see it happening now.

Read Me

Lucky for me, I met another publisher in the venders' aisles. Edge and Tesseract Books are Canadian and both really one publisher. I went to their booth for reading material (which I found, Tesseracts 13 is very good) and ended up wanting to submit to them.

But what I have ready at the moment are all short stories and these folks are looking for novels.

Aha.

A new place for my would-be violent comic series, with a whole lot less violence, a lot more SF action and poor Flame gets to keep her modesty. Best of all, I can do it on my own. No artist required. No offence there artists, but you know how complicated these partnership projects can be.

Mud, Sludge, Mugs, and a Skull

I've been attending the New Brunswick College of Craft and Design. First a studio in photography, then ceramics. It's been interesting. Ceramics was the hardest to get a grip on (yeah, pun's intended…slippery mud's like that). I had to grow patience for it at the same time I was learning to be quick about getting it done. It's like the worst of being crew on a movie "hurry up!…and wait."

Clay dries while you're trying to fashion it into something less lumpy, heavy or ugly than what you've got so far. It weakens into a floppy failure if you work too hard to smooth out the unwanted textures of the canvas you flattened it in or some misguided pattern tool. It becomes uselessly loose when you lay on the water that will make it work in your hands. The contradiction is intentional. I think it's supposed to weed out the weak.

Don't try to figure out the lumps in front. They make no sense.

My first mug was overly tall and overly narrow, patterned with well-intentioned, but seriously ugly jewellery and heavy as a weapon.

What the heck am I supposed to do with this? Pencil holder, you say? I got me one of those. Got a couple. They're plastic and from the '70's, so are slightly less ugly. Easier to clean, too.

I don't want to discuss it.

My second run at the task left me with four mugs Dianna calls "The Flintstone cups" that are also too heavy, glazed with teeth-chipping grit and charming only in the words they spell. They are the perfect example of a good idea gone terribly wrong.

I'm sorry Jennalee. You were great to help me with these, but they aren't working out. Want them? Yeah. Thought so.


My third batch of mugs (three, rather than four, because I was running out of clay, time and steam) were planned diligently, executed carefully, detailed lovingly and glazed with great care and trepidation. I can only assume the glaze came out splendid. I'll never know for sure, because while I was away promoting my book they were stolen from the racks. Grrr!

First: You have no idea how hard it is not to hex my wayward mugs into poisoning their abductors.
Second: I'm a little flattered, if inconvenienced. My mug-making finally made it to the level of theft worthy. Thanks. I'm touched.



Regardless, while I was working out the how's and why's of mug manufacturing, I figured out I'd been taught everything I needed to know to make a ceramic skull. So I did.

Now, this was fun!

His cranium is from slab (as opposed to "thrown" on a potter's wheel) made into a cylinder, a bottom sealed on and paddled into the round. A top was sealed on and paddled roundish, too. It had three holes that I eventually worked into eye sockets and a nose hole. Everything but the mandible is applied like handles—that would be the maxilla, the nasal bones and the zygomatic bones (cheek bones)—then worked and carved into realistic shapes. Call the lower mandible a lid and I've followed my instructor's lessons to the letter. He didn't mark it, though. I had to make lids for my now missing mugs to get all my projects done. I still have the lids. Bonus.

I started a blog to…um…blog

If you're wondering why the dearth of entries, it's because I delete almost every post I sit down to write. The rest I save in a growing pile of "Can't post that until "*"" files that are starting to impact my computer's hard drive—a hard drive I darn near lost last week. The fact is, I don't know what to say that isn't either completely over the top or utterly random. What I write that's completely over the top is boring…and, I think, borders on arrogant.

I firmly believe I am in this life to learn humility. I'll post about that someday. In the mean time, I have to go with column B or leave this blogging business to the professionals and blowhards (an approach that has thus far caused me nothing but anxiety).

So. Utterly random. I actually do that rather prolifically. Buckle up. There are going to be a few sharp turns and some rather steep inclines. Take now. I'm inclined to talk about pottery.