Amanda Helms

As I’m currently fighting off a cold/potential bronchial infection and therefore find myself disinclined to pursue nonsedentary activities, I’ve been reading that vampire book set in WWII that I mentioned buying my last Miscellany Monday post. So far I’m wishing I’d gone for Keri Arthur or Kelley Armstrong. Or that I’d even decided to spend a bit more money and headed over to the humor section for Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

It’s not just the egregious typos, though the copy editor in me experiences a minor brain aneurysm each time I spot another one (at least once every twenty pages–one of which was “aa” for “as.” Seriously. “In” for “it” and “that” for “than” I can understand, but a proper spell check should’ve caught the “aa”). And I love the premise of it–that’s why I bought the book in the first place, why I passed over Keri Arthur and Kelley Armstrong for something that struck me as more original.

But the characterization is flat. Not just pancake-flat, because pancakes, I mean good, made-from-scratch pancakes, have some flavor. The characters in this book are cardboard-flat.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit harsh. Cardboard with a dash of cinnamon. And for what it’s worth, cinnamon is my favorite spice.

Still.

I’ll finish the book, if only for a reminder of what I don’t want to write. And I will grant that this book contains multiple viewpoints–not just three or four, but–at a quick flip-through–nine. So due to space constraints, it’s that much more difficult to fully flesh out POV characters. It is possible, of course. Stephen King is excellent at this. The Stand comes to mind. Granted, The Stand is far longer than this book, but at the same time, the challenge of a short story is to develop characters in the space of 4,000 words or less. Using my math powers, 4,000 words times 9 equals 36,000 words, which is close to half the length of this book. So there still ought to be room for decent characterization.

The character that bothers me the most is a vampire named Eiche who, as far as I can tell, serves as the book’s main antagonist. The basic premise of the book is that Germany has enlisted the aid of German vampires to subdue the bloody English and make way for the Third Reich to take over. The vampires plan to betray rebel against the Germans, but it seems initially they’re willing to appear subservient for the sake of easy meals.

So Eiche and a team of other vampires have been sent to the town of Brytewood as a sort of advance guard/recon group. Honestly, I have to say that Eiche is starting to irritate me more and more. The scenes from his point of view consists largely of “How dare the mere mortal question him!” and “If only the puny human knew what Eiche really was…” Eiche’s arrogance is heavy-handed, and it seems that’s his only personality trait.

I don’t have to like the antagonist in a book. With urban fantasy, and most genre literature from The Lord of the Rings to–well, this book, you don’t go in expecting to sympathize with The Enemy. I don’t need it to be like the Dexter series, where the lines between Good Guy and Bad Guy get seriously blurred. But one of the first things writers learn, or should learn, about characters is that antagonists consider themselves the hero of their own story. They don’t see themselves as evil. And therefore, a good writer should carefully consider the antagonist’s goals and motivations, because it should be more complicated than “to beat the good guy” and “because he/she is evil.”

I’m not getting the sense that any more thought went into Eiche than what I put in that last sentence.

Some might say that I expect too much of my vampires. The fantasy world is full of monsters that are de facto evil: vampires, of course, and demons, incubi, succubi, werewolves, and all manner of beasties whose sole purpose, in their mythological roots, was to wreak havoc upon humans simply because they were evil. That the complicated, tortured vampire, didn’t come into vogue until Anne Rice, and since then, we’ve been slowly altering our monsters until they actually became figures of romance. But the root is pure evil.

Well, fine; it’s a writer’s prerogative to take a monster the pure-evil route–but in that case, don’t stick me in their POV for page after dreary page. I’d argue that the one-dimensional “this character is evil and that’s why they’re opposing the protagonist” characterization is more akin to a man (or woman) vs. nature plot–and when you get those, you don’t cut to the storm or hurricane’s POV, because there isn’t one, even if you personify it. It’s a force of nature, and it’s doing what it’s supposed to. No, instead of the storm, you stick with your protagonists. Because they have goals and motivations and thoughts and relationships with other characters and they’re interesting.

Or least, one would hope so.

I have more to write about–I thought about going into how I would’ve liked to have seen interactions among English vampires (mentioned in Eiche’s POV as being “effete” but have yet to make an appearance) and how the “vampires are superior to humans” and “Germans/the Aryan race are superior to everyone else” aspects would’ve played out in that respect. Would an English vampire be “better” to Eiche’s mind than a German human?

And I’d also thought how I could also better understand Eiche if he were to serve as a comparison to Hitler and Nazi Germany’s ethnocentrism and xenophobia. Because while I’d say that (if I may be permitted to compare historical and fictional persons) Hitler was more complicated than Eiche, I would put him firmly in the “evil” category. No shades of gray on that one; just evil. But the book certainly makes no sort of allusion that Eiche is to serve as an allegory for Hitler.

But that’s my English major resurfacing, five years after my graduation. I probably don’t need to go that deep an analysis for my historical urban fantasy.

And I have some sort of illness to fight, and a book to finish. I’ll try to save my energy and not throw the book against the wall when I get to Eiche’s scenes.

Or maybe I’ll just skip them. I doubt I’d miss much.

Okay, it being October, I’m starting to get semiserious about NaNoWriMo prep. I’ve changed my idea twice now, but I think this one is going to stick. I’m going with urban fantasy, which I’d initially thought to not do since I’d figured the market has to hit the saturation point fairly soon, but my trips to the bookstore so far indicate that the genre is still pretty healthy. However, I think the vampires/werewolves aspect is about to reach saturation point, so I’m doing something a bit different. My MC is descended from a line of sirens, works as a lounge singer/maybe bartender in a Nashville nightclub, and totes a Stradivarius that contains the psyches, I guess, of her ancestors.

Coughbuttherearestillwerewolvescough.*

Plot is still vague. I tend to develop my characters first and get more of a plot later. One of my favorite techniques for developing character, and, as a side-effect, story, is the character interview. Author meets character. Yup. It also helps, usually, to get all the fourth-wall breaking out of my system pre-NaNo so I don’t resort to it for word padding.

Usually. I make no promises.

Anyway,  I’m here posting my first “interview” with my MC, Shay Donovan.

I do have some nebulous thoughts about the story, which the interview alludes to, but since most everything is still sort of vague, I’m not (yet) going to explain it.**

So yeah. The creative mind at work.*** Here goes.

Character Interview: Shay Donovan

Amanda: Okay, we’ll see how this goes as I don’t really have any questions prepared and want to use this as my Thursday 300 post so I can kill two birds with one stone. And I’m leading off with a cliché. That does not bode well. Ack! Another one!

Shay: So do you want me to be snarky about that or comforting or what?

Amanda: I don’t know. That’s why I’m doing this character interview. It worked sort of well for my Every Day After project.

Shay: Except for the fact that you never finished it.

Amanda: Okay, I think I’d prefer you to be comforting. I don’t think you’re snarky. First question: How do you like being a lounge singer?

Shay: [shrugs] Well, it pays my bills, doesn’t it? [pause] I mean that seriously. I am solvent, aren’t I?

Amanda: At the moment. I’m not really seeing major financial difficulties as a point of tension in the book, even as a subplot. But go into a little more detail about your job aside from the financial aspects. Have you found your calling? (And you can ignore that I’ve just put in yet another cliché. This is a writing exercise. Clichés don’t count.)

Shay: My calling. Well, considering that I’m descended from a long line of sirens, that I get paid for singing is mostly a good thing. I guess. I don’t like that I have to be careful and not let myself go all-out, so to speak.

Amanda: That would be on account of potentially causing people to kill themselves.

Shay: Which you do need to develop a little further, you know. Yes, I know I’m based in Nashville and therefore landlocked, so it’s not like I’m going to cause hapless sailors to crash on hidden rocks and drown or whatever, but how exactly would people in a nightclub be lead to their deaths from the beauty of my singing? Walk into an amplifier and electrocute themselves?

Amanda: Well, it’s a thought…

Shay: Keep thinking.

Amanda: What did I say about the snarkiness? I know this is an urban fantasy and all, and it’s like the thing for the main characters to be smart-alecky, but I’m trying to buck tradition a bit here. I mean, sirens in Nashville, that hasn’t been done yet. I don’t think so, anyway.

Shay: …

Amanda: Hey! I’m already past 300 words according to OpenOffice’s counter. Score!

Shay: And you were actually considering the “Tuesday 200” as opposed to the “Thursday 300.”

Amanda: Gotta keep the alliteration, you know.

Shay: Well, written blathering has never really been your problem. Think you’re going to get the novel done in 100k or less?

Amanda: It could happen. Particularly if I have a decent plot drawn out. Speaking of, so your Stradivarius gets stolen at some point.

Shay: I know, and if I could kill you with my song, I’d do it now.

Amanda: You’re a lot meaner than I thought.

Shay: Probably your own latent antisocial tendencies. So my Stradivarius is stolen by my as-yet-unnamed archenemy who’s even more evil than the– Quit staring at your split ends! You’re not getting anything done. Keep at this. You don’t have to give up on it just because you’ve already hit 300 words.

Amanda: I know. Sorry. I really envy Stephen King and his navel stories. Wish I could feel like a story is just getting pulled straight from my navel to the page. It is sort of strange that he’d pick the navel rather than the brain or the heart, but then again back in the 1600s or so, the bowels were supposed to be the seat of emotions rather than the heart. At least, that’s what I remember from Freshman English…

Shay: Your mind goes to the strangest places. I could wish that someone else created me.

Amanda: Well, you’re stuck. I’d apologize but I’m still not happy with you talking about killing me with your song.

Shay: Hey, you’re the one who envisioned the “death song” as always being on the peripherary of my consciousness, flicking about the corners of my brain, just waiting for me to hum a bar or two.

Amanda: And it gets worse when you play the Stradivarius.

Shay: Why– Oh, it’s because it has the spirits of my dead ancestors in it, and their combined, er, siren-ness gets a little difficult to ignore.

Amanda: Hey, that’s progress! Only I hope it doesn’t sound quite so lame or unoriginal when I’ve fleshed it out a little bit.

Shay: Watch me be comforting! [clears throat] There, there. This is only the development process, and you’ll only be writing the first draft. Editing and excising of the lameness will come later.

Amanda: That kind of helped. I guess. But anyway (and here comes my fourth cliché) the Stradivarius is kind of a double-edged sword, because it does make you more, um, siren-like and powerful, but if you can harness the…

Shay: Don’t do it! Keep your hair in that ponytail.

Amanda: [puts hand back on keyboard] Right. But if you can harness the power boost (sounds like a crappy Japanese fighter game, “power boost”) and use it for your more positive abilities—the happy songs that are more life-inducing and healing and all that—then that’s a good thing. And I’ll wordsmith that later. Not sure I want to mention “happy songs” when talking about your particular abilities.

Shay: Yup, just keep up that mantra. It’s just the planning stage for the first draft. Edit later.

Amanda: See, that’s the kind of supportiveness I like!

Shay: Well, you’ve got me saving a stranger bleeding profusely from the abdomen in the first chapter. I’d hope that’s indicative of at least a modicum of niceness.

Amanda: We may have to dumb down your vocabulary a bit, though.

Shay: Hey!

Amanda: No offense.

Shay: Offense still taken.

Amanda: Just remember that I’m giving you a Stradivarius to play. That should count for something.

Shay: It’d count for more if it didn’t get stolen.

Amanda: The when on that is still up in the air. It could get played out into the sequel, if there is one.

Shay: In which case the theft would last across books. You’re not helping any, Helms.

Amanda: I’d apologize, but it’s a writer’s job to make her characters’ lives as sucky as possible before fixing things. Otherwise there’s no drama or tension and nobody will want to read the book.

Shay: [grumbles]

Amanda: Well, I think I’m calling it quits for now. I’m going to blame my low blood pressure. Hope it’s nothing serious.

Shay: Most likely momentary. But of course if it’s still low when you try to donate blood next week, you should probably head to the doctor.

Amanda: Aww, see, you are nice.

Shay: And I’d be even nicer if I got to keep the Stradivarius.

Amanda: Not happening.

Shay: [grumbles]

___________________________________________________________

*Hey, saturation point or no, I figure there might be some crossover appeal. Don’t judge me.

**Plus I’m sure the explanation would hit more than 300 words, so I’d prefer to hoard that for another Thursday 300. I’m lazy that way.

***Can be a frightening thing.

Saturday afternoon I bounded from my car and to my local Borders with my $5 Borders Bucks print-out folded semi-neatly in my purse. I always have a sense of when joy purchasing a new mass market paperback for a total of $2–3 and change.

A sign in the window drew my attention just as I was about to pass through the entryway: Bargain Books $1.

Well, thought I, I’m not likely to find anything I’d want for just $1, but it never hurts to lo– Zadie Smith! On Beauty! In hardback! SCORE!

There were several copies remaining, so I snagged one with death grip–no one, but no one, would wrest my copy of On Beauty from me should they be overcome with the awesomeness of the $1 price, so much so that they were unwilling to head over to the entryway to procure their own copy from the remaining five or so. Which would surely depart the shelves quickly, because it’s Zadie Smith for $1. One freaking dollar.

As a prepublished writer, perhaps I should have winced a bit at poor Zadie losing out quite a bit on her royalties, but honestly it never occurred to me. Clearly I’ll have to reorganize my reader vs. writer priorities.

Nevertheless, I headed into the store and back toward the SF/Fantasy section with a certain bounce in my step. The soundtrack of my life, if anyone could hear it but me, would have been playing a jouncy tune à la a 1960s comedy starring Doris Day.

I think. It’s been awhile since I watched AMC.

Anyway, I navigated myself to the A’s of SF/Fantasy. I did think I wanted to get that book about werewolves and/or vampires in WWII England, but it never hurt to browse, did it, just in case I changed my mind.

I glanced at Kelley Armstrong and Keri Arthur, neither of whom I’ve yet read. After scanning a couple of their books, I realized I’d forgotten my tradition of heading over to the H’s to see where my book will be placed upon publication, which is what I’ve taken to doing every time I head into a brick and mortar bookstore. Positive mental conditioning, you know. So I strolled over to the H’s, pausing to note how Charlaine Harris took up a whole case plus a shelf and a half, found my spot snug between Hendee and someone whose name now escapes me, and glanced at Faith Hunter’s books. Oh yeah, been meaning to try her, too.

But after some dithering, I still went for the vampires in WWII England.

Then, still clutching my $1 Zadie and my going-to-be$2-and-change-with-my-Borders-Bucks vamps in England, I set out for the cash registers, pausing to look at the various display tables.

“That’s a wonderful price on the Zadie Smith, isn’t it?” I looked up from my book browsing to see a Borders employee with a shaved head smiling at me. I smiled back.

“Oh yes, it is!”

“I was kind of upset to see the price go down like that–I mean, I could’ve gotten it pretty cheap if I’d waited!” Chuckle, chuckle.

“Mm-hmm.”

But I also wondered if I was being judged for purchasing my vampires in WWII England book as well. And I wondered that again when my cashier also commented on my fabulous Zadie Smith deal.

I like Zadie Smith. I’ve read The Autograph Man and White Teeth. She’s a funny writer with a deft, and I mean deft, hand for characterization. She’s good. And I was an English major; I do appreciate good literature. I just also happen to think that urban fantasy can be good, too.

Which brings me, more than 600 words into this post (maybe I should work on shortening my anecdotes) to the reason of why I don’t write stuff that will be shelved in the Fiction & Literature section of my local borders. Why it’s Charlaine Harris I pass when seeing who my book neighbors will be, rather than Thomas Hardy or Alex Haley.

And I don’t know. I can say that escapism is part of it, and it is, I suppose. Or maybe it’s because I thrived on fairy tales and myths when growing up. My bedroom sported unicorn wallpaper, for the love of God. And I don’t know where my mom found them, but for a couple of years my calendars unicorn calendars. Not drawings, mind you, but photographs of white horses that had had horns attached to their heads. These calendars engendered talks with my mom about how “unicorns aren’t really real, you know. Someone just glued horns to those horses’ heads.”

Yes, I knew. But I loved those calendars all the same. And the first story I clearly remember writing featured a unicorn. I don’t write about unicorns now, but maybe fantasy is just ingrained in me.

Others more eloquent than I have written on fantasy’s worth, and I don’t feel compelled to defend the genre, as it were. I will say that character is paramount for me. If I can’t get on the character’s side or believe the character’s actions, then I’m done. And since much of genre literature (forgetting for the moment that “fiction and literature” is itself a genre) is plot-based, it’s perhaps not uncommon for characterization to fall by the wayside.

But I also don’t go for pretty language at the expense of character. And that’s where much “literary fiction” loses my interest.

I don’t have much point with this post, other than to note I don’t like that I still cringe a little at not going the literary erudite route. But what does it matter, really? I like to write. I like to tell stories. And every story, I think, is an escape from something.

So yes. I am an escapist.

Since the actual post is long enough, figured I’d put this in another entry.

On the whole, I’m pleased with the monster prompt. Major issue is that there’s not enough hints from the beginning that Jeremy didn’t like his dog much, but for something that’s hardly edited (I added an “a” and changed a “for” to “of” and checked for misspellings) I think it turned out well.

But honestly I’m not likely to post my abject failures. Maybe the self-critique thing is unnecessary.

Prompt from Writer’s Digest

When you were little, you could swear there was a monster under your bed—but no one believed you. On the eve of your 30th birthday, you hear noises coming from under your bed once again. The monster is back and has an important message to deliver to you.

I can’t really imagine anything worse than waking up on your thirtieth birthday and realizing you’re still the same failure you were at twenty-nine, at twenty-eight, twenty-three, all the way down to six years old, before it even occurred to you that you could be a failure. But in kindergarten art class, I was a failure. Mrs. Morgenstern complained—but in a nice way, as all kindergarten teachers should—that my pictures were all the same.

“And what have you drawn, Jeremy?” she’d ask, sliding my crayon-covered scribbling out from under my palms. She’d examine the picture, lips pursing, then sigh and blow out her bangs, lift a hand to smooth them out of her face. “It’s the monster again, Jeremy.” Said in a flat, you’re-a-failure-and-you-don’t-even-know-it-you-poor-idiot tone.

“It lives under my bed,” I’d say, like I hadn’t told her that every day of art class in the weeks she’d been my teacher.

“Now, Jeremy.” Mrs. Mortgenstern would give me my paper back, a frown playing at her lips. “You know that monsters don’t really exist. You have a dog, don’t you? Or some other pet? Why don’t you draw me a picture of him?”

I didn’t draw a picture of Rover because the monster had eaten him, and drawing pictures of my dead dog brought up unpleasant memories. Not that anyone believed me about that; the story was that Rover had run away one day, “like dogs sometimes do,” according to my Mom. But she hadn’t heard the crunching, and the whimpers. I had.

In the intervening years we’d moved to a new, monster-free house, and I’d done my best to move on, too, and draw pictures of things other than monsters and think about things other than dead or missing dogs. Childhood failures fade, eventually. The adult failures are more difficult to let go of.

But back to the being thirty and a failure bit.

The night before I was to turn thirty, I shucked down my bedsheets, ruminating on how I wasn’t married and indeed hadn’t had a girlfriend in over three years, how my job as a manager at the chicken processing facility was so not what I’d envisioned my future to be, how I still lived in a crummy apartment and had no five- or even a ten-year plan to get out of it, and I thought about how all those problems would seem that much worse in the morning because I’d shifted from two-nine to three-oh.

What a difference a change in two digits can make.

At 10:32 I flicked off the light and told myself I was going to sleep. At 10:33 I heard a familiar rattling under the bed. A rattling I hadn’t heard in over twenty years; a rattling I’d have rather forgot.

“No.” I said it aloud because the negation felt more real that way. Solid. Powerful. A force to be reckoned with, as they say. “I’m not hearing anything. It’s an… aural hallucination induced by dread of turning th-th-thirty.”

More rattling. I screwed my eyes shut tight, and my hands grasped fistfuls of the sheets, willing my brain to stop hallucinating.

But it didn’t stop, and at some point you decide it’s worse to actually be insane than to let the insane thing happen. I sat bolt-upright in the bed. “All right then, you bloody beast! Come out!”

The rattling stopped. For a moment all I heard was my own breathing, harsh and ragged in my ears. Blood rushed in my head and my heart struggled to beat its way out of my chest. Images of Rover—I hadn’t been the most imaginative child when it came to naming things—flashed through my brain, his tiny stump of a tail bobbing back and forth as he bared his lips and barked and barked and barked at the thing under my bed. He’d known there was something there.

I forced the thoughts away and my breath to ease, and then I heard a sort of scuffling, shuffling noise. And I had to have imagined the slight weight pressing on the end of my bed, just past my feet. I lived alone. Not even another pet; another symbol of my failure at life. So there couldn’t be anything else at the end of the bed.

But there was.

My hand shook—only a little, I told myself—as I reached out to my bedside to flick on the light.

A creature hardly bigger than a border collie sat on my bed, blinking at me. It was purple—in my pictures I’d always used green, never haven gotten a good look at it—with bulbous, watery eyes. It lifted a stubby, clawed hand to block the light. “Would you mind putting that out? It burns.”

Automatically I reached out to turn off the light again, but then I stopped and glowered at the beast. “No. You’re the monster who lived under my bed when I was six, aren’t you.”

It squinted and lifted up its other hand to reveal a crumpled piece of paper. It peered at it, then back at me. “You Jeremy Copenhagen?”

“Yeah.”

The thing drew itself up to its full, and, now that I was six-two rather than four-two, unimpressive height. “Yeah, I’m your monster. Could you turn out the light, please? It’s hurting my eyes.”

A steady, hard anger had begun to build in my chest once I realized what the creature was, and now it burst over. “Hell no, I’m not turning out the light! First you scare me to death each night for a year, culminating in the eating of my dog, then you have the gall to invade my home twenty-plus years later and you want me to turn off the light because it hurts you? You’re lucky I don’t have access to a floodlight!”

A moment of silence. “Okay, you have a point.”

It cleared its throat while I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at it. “What do you want?”

Sighing, it blinked a few more times and then peered at its piece of paper again and once more cleared its throat. “Hello. My name is Grar. I am here because I have done you harm. I apologize for the harm I have done to you, fully and sincerely—”

My jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

Grar glanced at me. “It’s part of Step Nine.”

Brow creasing, I said, “You mean Step Nine as in the Twelve Steps? That Step Nine?”

Grar began to look uncomfortable. “Um. Back when I. Um. It was a very dark time for me.”

I stared at the small creature.

Grar scratched at the side of its nonexistant neck. “I was under a lot of stress, you see. My wife had left me not too long ago, human kids weren’t scaring so easily since all those video games with the blood and the guts had come out, and I couldn’t sleep in the day like I should. So I started drinking just to help block out the light—” Here a hopeful glance toward my own bedside light. Face twisting, I reached out and turned the switch to shift it from 60 watts to 75. Grar grimaced and shut his—couldn’t keep calling him it—eyes, covered them with his free hand. “—then one night that little dog of yours started yapping and barking and barking and yapping, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“So you ate him.”

Removing his hand, Grar looked at me piteously. “I was drunk! I didn’t know what I was doing!”

Swinging my legs off the side of the bed, I marched to Grar and punched his diminutive shoulder. “You ate my dog! And no one believed me when I told them!”

Grar huddled in on himself, clutching the paper to his head. “I’m sorry.”

I hit him again. He let out a small whimper, but didn’t retaliate. I drew back my hand one more time, paused, and let it fall.

Honestly, I hadn’t been that fond of Rover. He liked my sister better, and that always galled me. And Grar— it was hard to hate him, purple sniveling thing that he was. He paled in comparison to the horrors of Turning Thirty and Remaining a Failure. Beating Grar wouldn’t take any of that away.

I sighed and sat on the edge of the bed next to him. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Will you leave now and never come back, now that you’ve apologized?”

Grar perked up. “Does that mean you forgive me?”

“Yes. No. Ask me when I’m thirty.” I stopped. That would mean he’d have to come back. “Or don’t, actually.” I made shooing motions at him. “Just… go away and don’t drink anymore.”

Grar regarded me, absentmindedly crumpling his paper. “So that’s a maybe? I can deal with a maybe.”

More shooing motions. “Okay, then. Maybe I forgive you. Now go away and don’t come back. I’ve had enough with monsters.”

He hopped on to the floor and tucked the piece of paper into some fold of skin. “Hey, thanks, Jeremy. You’re my first Step Nine, and it didn’t go as bad as I thought it would. It’s not like I’m high up in the ranks or anything, but I’ll try to make sure your kids—you got kids? No? Well, when you have ‘em, I’ll do my best to make sure my people don’t bother them.” He paused. “Only, if you get ‘em a dog, pick something that doesn’t bark so much, maybe?”

I dropped my head in my hands. “Yeah. Sure.”

Grar hesitated. “Um. I really am sorry.”

“Just go away, Grar.”

Some scuffling, then silence. I waited five minutes, then looked up and around. The only sign of Grar’s presence was a torn bit of paper hardly larger than an eraser tip. I climbed back into bed, trying not to feel hopeful.

When, Grar had said. When I have kids. Not that the monster’s words counted for anything, but maybe I wouldn’t stay a failure forever.

And maybe Rover had tasted like chicken. I really didn’t like that dog.

I have a love/hate relationship with fall.

Actually, “hate” is too strong. Even “dislike” is a little too far on the negative end of the shades of meaning scale. It’s more accurate to say I have a love/mild regret relationship with fall.

Fall brings pumpkins. Pumpkins means pumpkin pancakes (try the ones here*), pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin chili**, pumpkin soup**, pumpkin beer**, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin bread, pumpkin butter, pumpkin pie, and the pumpkin spice latte from a certain ubiquitous coffee shop chain***.

I would love fall for the tastiness of pumpkin alone. But fall also brings the cool, crisp weather that’s perfect for snuggling up with a cup of chai tea†, a blanket††, and my current book of choice. Yes, yes, it’s sedentary, and I whined about being sedentary in my previous Miscellany Monday post, but still. There is that within me that likes to stay still. I embrace it on occasion.  And if I embrace it not with chai, then with cider.

Oh, brainstorm: Pumpkin cider! Pause with me a moment to consider that taste sensation.

pausepausepausepausepause

(happy sigh)

Lest you think that my love of fall stems solely from the squash and imbibeables, let me note also that I love the colors of the changing leaves†††. Maybe it’s because I’m what the fashion industry would call an autumn and the pastel blues and pinks of spring aren’t meant for my skin tone, but one of my favorite fall pastimes, when I’m not quaffing my chai or cider with my book in hand, is to walk outside and admire the trees. I’ve often thought that when/if I get married, I’d like to do it in fall when the leaves are changing. And that’s as far as I’ve gotten in planning my wedding‡.

The there’s Halloween. Halloween actually isn’t my favorite holiday, but (and here’s another sedentary activity) I derive much enjoyment from watching, and mocking, the cheesy B-movies that abound on basic cable and base satellite packages‡‡. Brings back fond memories of movies mocked and degraded with my dear college roommates.

And, of course, fall is the season of NaNoWriMo‡‡‡.

And so, dear readers,  you are likely now asking yourselves, assuming you didn’t abandon me after sighting the symbol for footnote 6, just what it is about fall that might cause my slight regret, as I have just discoursed on its virtues.

Well. And this likely isn’t wholly fall’s fault, since I’m sure Colorado’s dry clime plays a large roll. But come fall, I am often subject to dry skin, forcing me to slather lotion on my hands and feet in a (mostly futile) effort to prevent my skin from developing rough patches. But worse yet is the facial eczema I develop, since it can get fairly widespread and painful and unsightly and make me think that I might as well try out to be the hideous monster in one of those Halloween-season B-movies, because then at least my misery would result in some monetary compensation rather than just making me wish I really could just wear a bag over my head and be done with it.

I don’t like thinking about that bit. I’m not sure why I even included it.

Lucky for fall that it gives me pumpkins.

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*Considering that two of my three real posts now include links to that Ben Starr guy’s recipe, he should be pretty happy with me.

**Okay, rightly speaking I haven’t yet tried any of these. But I still suspect I’d like them. Well, maybe not the beer, but since I’m not much of a beer fan, that wouldn’t be the pumpkin’s fault.

***And rightly speaking redux, I don’t particularly like this chain’s pumpkin spice latte. But since I don’t much like espresso or any latte, I also know that’s not the pumpkin’s fault. If there is any real pumpkin involved, that is.

†If anyone knows where I could get pumpkin chai tea–or just pumpkin tea–let me know. Really. I’m serious.

††So help me, I actually own one of these thanks to my mother.

††† Comments about how the changing of the leaves lasts a month, tops, leaving behind piles of leaves to rake (which aren’t my responsibility anyway as I have no yard–but I would trade away the convenience for the chance to grow pie pumpkins) and barren branches are unwanted and unnecessary. This is my idyll.

‡ Okay, okay. I’ve also thought that a ballroom-style wedding dress is out and I’d prefer a trumpet or maybe mermaid. But that’s truly it.

‡‡ABC Family’s 13 Nights of Halloween is often a good starting point.

‡‡‡I’d say that Chris Baty must love me more than that Ben Starr guy as I’ve linked to or mentioned NaNoWriMo at least twice as much as the pumpkin gingerbread pancake recipe, but I rather doubt NaNo requires as much advertising.

First off, I have to admit that after writing the Monday Miscellany post, I had a moment of doubt as I was falling asleep, that I’d glorified the writing process more than it’s worth–like it’s some grand undertaking that only the brave can withstand, and that one has to make grievous sacrifices in order to complete it.

But then the next morning, I saw a commercial for Miracle Whip that exhorted mayonnaise to “move over,” because Miracle Whip refuses to “disappear in the background” or “blend in”: “We are Miracle Whip, and we will not tone it down.”

So I felt better about myself after witnessing that bit of marketing pomposity for a condiment.

Anyway. My first Thursday 300 post is based upon the following Prompt from Writer’s Digest online:

Your family isn’t cooperating with your writing career, so you’ve decided to go on strike. Write a list of demands that must be met in order for you to return to your chores and household responsibilities. (Don’t forget to make a concession or two to speed up the negotiation process.)

Only I’m changing it a bit, since living on my own means I’d be the only one punished by my refusal to clean the bathroom or cook. Since I don’t like slovenliness or starving, it’d be rather counterproductive to go on strike from chores. And my family is actually pretty supportive of my desire to write–though I’m sure it helps that I’m self-supported and don’t beg them for money. Nor do I subject them to whining about my writer’s block or the difficulties of characterization or plotting. No strife there.

So I’m not striking from anything, and instead involving my family, I’m going to make demands of my Inner Critic, Inner Editor, and Inner Procrastinator.

Okay, I guess that really isn’t like the prompt. But it served as a springboard, which is the whole purpose of a prompt, right? Right?

Moving on.

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Me: Okay, so since I’m getting back into writing and particularly gearing up for my sixth year of NaNoWriMo, I figure we ought to set a few ground rules. Sound good?

Inner Critic: [opens mouth to reply]

Me: [Verbally rolls over IC]: First off, and I mean you, Inner Critic, there is to be no denigrating the story during the rough draft. The important thing, as NaNoWriMo has taught us, is to get it done so you have something to work with. Next–

Inner Critic: Are you sure about that? I mean, I could save you loads of time down the line by pointing out immediately when you’ve written something stupid.

Me: The point, though, is to not stifle the creative process. And it’s difficult to see the quality of something when you’re in the midst of it, anyway. That whole forest and trees bit, you know.

IC: Well, fine, but I think you’re setting yourself up for failure.

Me: [Clears throat] Next, Inner Procrastinator, I don’t care how much you think staring at the split ends of my hair helps get the creative juices flowing; it doesn’t. Cut that out when we’re at the computer.

Inner Procrastinator: But what about when you’re really, really stuck? I mean, sure, I get that you don’t want Inner Critic mucking things up by prematurely deeming your work massive suckitude, but you know, sometimes the words just don’t come.

Me: [Glares at IP] If the words don’t come, then I write anyway.

IC: But that’s what gets you into trouble with breaking the fourth wall! And then you have all that “And then the characters looked to the author, pleading for direction” crap to cut. It wastes time.

Me: [Grits teeth] Fine, then I’ll write something else, like in my journal. Or go for a walk to think things over.

Inner Editor: Or you could read through what you’ve written and fix all the misspellings and errant commas.

Me: But there’s no point in doing that early, in case I wind up cutting the scene later. I’ll have wasted time.

IC: I’ve often thought that the quality of a work can be judged by the amount of grammatical errors it contains. If you’ve got a lot of them, you’re writing crap.

Me: For the last time, it’s a rough draft! It doesn’t have to be perfect. It’s not going to be perfect! I just want the raw material to work with, and all of you are stumbling blocks to getting it! [Takes deep breath and stands back.] You know what? Screw this. You’re all imaginary, anyway. I can take you down. [Grabs a handy flamethrower and proceeds to torch the IC, IP, and IE, all of whom scream in a piteous and most satisfying manner.]

Me: [Sets down flamethrower, dusts off hands, and regards the charred remains of the IC, IP, and IE.] There, now. That was cathartic.

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And how!

Some might consider it counterproductive for my first real post (I don’t count my last one) to contain a confession that I haven’t been writing for the past, hmm, eight months or so when my site is ostensibly devoted to promoting my writing career. What can I say? I live dangerously. As dangerously as one can live in the electronic medium, that is.

All right, here it is: I haven’t been writing for the past eight months. I do believe that writers write, period, and that the only way to get through writer’s block is to write through it. There are various reasons why I didn’t, one among them being that I was focused on my health and taking off the ten pounds I’d put on following a trip to Disney World in May 2008. One of my tools, aside from the fabulous Leigh Peele’s work, was my GoWear Fit. I love this little device. I don’t plan to use it forever, and I know it isn’t 100% accurate, but. It first convinced me that I was, initially, eating too little for my activity level. Now that I have that straightened out, it’s shown me to me how few calories I burn while sitting. Pretty much the same as sleep. And no, that one hour of exercise really doesn’t make up for those eight hours working as a desk jockey.

So I have mixed feelings about choosing a sedentary activity as my favored hobby when the majority of my day already consists of sitting. Because honestly, that writer’s mantra “butt in chair [or in my case, butt on exercise ball], hands on keyboard” is at odds with my GoWear Fit–induced awareness of nonexercise activity thermogenesis, or NEAT, which is simply all the calories we burn by living life rather than formal exercise. And that’s where the bulk of our caloric burn comes from. In terms of getting to eat more food, I’d be much better off spending that hour or two cleaning my apartment or walking while reading or biking or pretty much anything besides sitting. And despite my history as an undereater, I like food. It tastes good. It makes me happy.

But writing makes me happy, too.* I’m more content when I’m writing consistently. I have a sense of benevolence toward the whole world, including those whom I normally consider irritants. I suppose it’s rather how mothers feel when holding their newborns for the first time. Or at least it makes me feel deep and philosophical to think so, at any rate.

So yes, I plan to get back to writing regularly. I’ll likely hitch my star to NaNoWriMo for the sixth time out and use its momentum to get me going again. Though I have to admit that as Wrimos all over scramble to get their 50k done and chant to themselves, “butt in chair, hands on keyboard,” a tiny part of me will sigh wistfully: Guess I don’t get my pumpkin pancake today.**

And then I will get my butt on my exercise ball and my hands on my keyboard, and I will write. (Though I might also wish I had a treadmill and treadmill desk, but that, too, is another post.)

*Well, for the most part. There are the days when I want to pull my hair out over characters running amok and plot points that won’t come together, but that’s another post.

**I love pumpkin pancakes. Found a wonderful recipe last year for pumpkin gingerbread pancakes. Just thinking about them now makes me all tingly.

I’ve at last got my site pretty much how I want it, which means I have to begin real posting. My first Miscellany Monday should appear tomorrow.

So yeah, essentially this post is here just so I don’t have to leave up my generic “new content will appear here eventually!” thing. Which is essentially what I’m saying with this post, anyway. Ah, well.