Taking Back a Tainted Legacy: Why She Walks in Shadows is important

Hi all! Wow, it's been quite a summer with school starting this week, getting doctor's checkups, and awaiting a potential tropical storm that hit the Caribbean this morning.

So, a bit of big news: the anthology She Walks in Shadows is coming out in October, but pre-sales have hit the 200 mark for orders and has received positive press. In addition, Expanded Horizons accepted my short story "The Castle's Women," and I will post the link when it's online.

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Recently The Mary Sue did a short article on the She Walks in Shadows anthology, commending Silvia Moreno-Garcia's goals for taking on such a project. Some of the comments, however, were concerned about the fact that Lovecraft was a notorious racist in addition to being a misogynist, completely missing the point that She Walks in Shadows specifically asked for stories from POC authors as well as female authors. Garcia had to step into the comment thread to explain this fact,

Then some people took Garcia to task for creating a woman's only anthology, and she blogged an FAQ info-post discussing the issue, as well as her refusal to apologize for being a "little bitch" in response to one angry email. Garcia handled the insult with grace, and explained that she wanted to create a space to showcase the "girls that play with squids," to paraphrase what she writes. I was rather insulted on Garcia's behalf that someone would take the time to insult her for adding creative democracy to the mythos, and I could not understand why people would want to cling to their idea that a space for female fantasy and horror writers wasn't needed.

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Lovecraft has a tainted legacy, because while the man had remarkable ideas regarding great evils we cannot comprehend, not to mention a massive generosity for his friends and fellow writers, he was a racist. I didn't discover him directly or the admiration that my favorite authors like Neil Gaiman seemed to apply to him, though I like what he inspired in other people, and how he could make seemingly ordinary objects like a color terrify his readers. No massive obsession occurred, or an instant passion from reading the man's words; in fact, I had to slug through them and labor through the stories.

Then I talked to a librarian on Friday, mentioning the anthology. We've known each other for years, sharing a mutual love of comics and fantasy. I mentioned the fuss going around the anthology, and admitting I don't like Lovecraft the person (more on that below). The librarian then remarked on how Lovecraft was a product of his times, and that Edgar Allan Poe, who I preferred, wasn't raised by three maiden aunts. He then said something interesting:

"I related a lot to Lovecraft growing up. He never really aged past the age of fifteen."

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At the time I couldn't wrap my head around the concept, especially since this year my anger about racial injustice has increased, but later I was able to ponder the matter. As someone who likes to read on author's lives, I like to see how other writers developed their methods, to see what worked for them and how they worked on their stories. The thought of Lovecraft creating a connection with his audience made sense, given that if he hadn't written words that made an impact, then he wouldn't have been considered the father of cosmic horror.

Cosmic horror, as it was explained to me, is about the horror of facing creatures and a universe larger than us, of seeing human beings as mere ants compared to the fathoms that our naked eyes can only witness. I misinterpreted this as my usual apprehension that comes when watching the stars and picturing how asteroids as large as mountains can crash into the ocean and cause catastrophic tidal waves. I had to do further research to understand that the concern involved encountering clever monsters as large as mountains that took over our minds and hearts. To be honest, the idea doesn't scare me because the idea of our sun blowing up or an asteroid crashing into the oceans seems more plausible than giant tentacles invading our minds.

 

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I gained more respect for cosmic horror after reading other takes on it. A Sherlock Holmes anthology had two stories featuring the Old Ones, and how they instilled horror in Watson during one tale, and inspired honor and duty in Sebastian Moran in another. The horror wasn't real to me before, but it became real. I was able to develop healthy respect, while wondering why the Old Ones had to be evil and conquering by default.

"The Opera Singer," which I wrote for She Walks in Shadows, was thus challenge because, though I have gained respect for the mythos, I do not like Lovecraft.  His prose is too dry for me, and the only story I liked-- "The Color out of Space"-- worked because the idea of a color on the spectrum that could kill people was enthralling. All of the "Old Ones" were demonic, and the title character in "The Dunwich Horror" never had a moment where we saw his perspective. Surely space squids existed on a spectrum of black and white, where they varied in what they wanted, and the Old Ones wanted more than to take over the minds of men and lure them into slavery. The story and novel exist as democracies, in that each character gets a chance to tell his, her, or its story; Lovecraft horror decreed that the Old Ones have to be evil because they desire to take over the minds of men, and that someone like Wilbur Whateley never got a chance to demonstrate different facets because his author wanted to assure the reader that Wilbur was evil and not properly human.

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With that in mind, the creature that does exist in "The Opera Singer" does not consider itself evil because it exists on a spectrum above petty humanity, as the title character grows old and slowly deprived of the world's luxuries, like basic kindness or nostalgic places. The woman who inspired my black  main character, I encountered her walking and pushing her own wheelchair, and she told me how she used to sing in opera and how now she couldn't go to her favorite practice room because of regulations. She stayed with me, up until the prompt for She Walks in Shadows went up and asked for tales.  I wrote the story to ponder on how people change before our eyes, but because we blink so many times we hardly notice since the changes are small and incremental.

Being able to tell these stories with the Lovecraft mythos is important, to expand on the characters previously deemed "monsters" and "horrors," whether or not they were cosmic horrors or black-faced,"apelike" stereotypes. We need to reclaim that space to show that we can move past Lovecraft's times and his issues, while adding more good to his legacy. Reclaiming does not mean that we oust his original prose, or threaten his fanbase; rather, we create a safe space that can coexist with previous canon.

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So yes, I may not play with galactic squids the way other authors do, but I enjoy being included in the fun. If someone thinks that a woman doesn't have the right to create her space, or to participate in one when the field is primarily dominated by a protective majority, then I will most likely listen to that someone out of politeness and participate anyway. The writing arena is a democracy in that we share our stories equally, with different voices and perspectives. When a past error remains in one historic piece, then the only thing to do is to write a tale to counter it.

The space doesn't have a limit. Neither does the human mind. Let's fill both with varying perspectives to change racist legacies.

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Sick Weekend Two: The Danger of Silence

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Hey All,

I'm sick again. Fortunately it's not as painful as the sickness that I had in December, but battling a sore throat and mild fever while doing schoolwork and writing this blog. But I feel the need to write it, to keep up with my earlier resolution to blog once a week. My problem was that I hit the dreaded sensation that  every writer must get in their lifetime: a Block.

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When I was a teenager, I read books about writer's block. I read comics about writer's block, including Neil Gaiman's "Calliope" which is a story that has since become a cliche in popular culture regarding writers interacting with muses. When I read these stories, I laughed; the idea of not being able to write a word seemed to be an inherent character deficit that could be corrected.

Now that I'm in a slump myself, I feel some sympathy for some of the fictional writers that suffer blocks. Not the one in "Calliope" though; he gave all writers a bad name in terms of what he does to the titular muse. I feel sympathy for Mike Noonan in Bag of Bones, however, because he stops writing due to external stresses, namely his wife dying in the novel's opening pages. Like him, the pressure to do well and stay healthy has affected how I view the words. Sometimes it feels like I'm stepping from one slipper stone to another across a rapidly moving river whose current has destroyed others.

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Traditionally "writer's block" refers to a writer not having any ideas, at least according to popular culture, or having stale ideas that quickly fall apart on the written page. In most cases the blocks happened after the writer had hit success with one novel, and had shut down shortly afterward. The solution to such a situation, which Joanne Harris did implement in real life, was have another book ready for publication. In her case she nearly suffered a block after Chocolat became a success but had already written Blackberry Wine, her next novel that delved into writer's block, the fantastique nature of the French countryside as well as tourist threats. I was planning to do the same thing with Carousel, since I have two novel rough drafts on queue, but stress and business school interfered with my plans. My next long work probably won't happen for a while, not until I finish some short stories.

For those wondering, I don't agree with how Jay the protagonist was portrayed during his block in Blackberry Wine; he got a block because he based his first successful novel on real life, and the success drove him to write "trashy" science fiction for ten years. Call me a fan of the former pulp writers like Ray Bradbury, but there is nothing shameful about writing about aliens as opposed to "literary" fiction. Also, I'm suspicious about basing entire novels on real life, since that can lead to hurt feelings and lawsuits. Jay could have easily started traveling with the money and freedom that he earned, to find more adventures to put into his books. For those wondering about his girlfriend Kerry, it's never a good idea to volunteer to be a blocked writer's muse and hope to encourage good works out of him or her. You will just end up frustrated and disillusioned. Better to brainstorm and encourage, rather than to cut their "trashy" works.

Currently I'm working to get out of my slump and back into the field, while searching for jobs, managing home duties and keeping up in schoolwork. I'm optimistic because this week I actually finished a decent tale for a friend's birthday, the first breath of life into this school year. And with luck, 2015 will mean that I make my goals with aplomb again. Wish me luck!

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Reasons for My Hiatus: Slump

Hi all,

I know it's been a while since my last post, and I apologize for that. A great amount of events occurred, including the start of business school (long story), family drama, and writer's block. Plenty of writer's block. 

So, the first order of business is that I have a book out! Carousel has been released, in ebook and print format! Over a year ago, I posted a blog on writing the initial draft for the novella, but my baby is finally out into the world and getting read!

Best for those who like fantasy and music

Several of my other tales have come out; Aurora Wolf released "Forgiveness," one of my moodier short stories, and Eggplant Publications came out with the ebook of Spindles, which includes my short story "The Brahman and the Onion". So definitely I've been productive, submitting stories and brainstorming creative responses for anthologies.

There's not all good news, however; I had to put my webcomic A La Mode on hiatus because business school ended up demanding more of my time than anticipated. My older brother also had to move out this year, to pursue his fellowship in ophthalmology, and the house has been quieter without his constant presence. He still visits at least once a month, but there has been a marked difference in our lives without him. Namely I've had to be more of an adult than I was before, taking on more responsibilities. This has left me feeling like I want to withdraw into an acorn shell, and hide from the world.

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Something I've learned about myself: it's hard to write well when I'm stressed. More importantly, it's hard to write depressing material when I'm stressed, namely horror stories. That's why at the moment I'm working on lighter material, doing Nanowrimo at a much slower pace than last year. I'm also working to learn how to meditate, and find healthier outlets. My new goal is to blog at least once a week, and I have a few ideas in the queue. I hope that you can all hang on till the ideas surface, including my impression on research and on Disney. Signing out:

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Bloggers Pseudonymous: Iron Galleon Beach

 Hi, everyone! Hope you had a good weekend. Below is a little deviation from the norm, a multi-blog serial called "Iron Galleon Beach." Matt Anderson, Corissa Glasheen, Philip McCall I, Rebecca Curtis and Kathryn Phillips are going to . As Matt has described this project to the five of us:
"This is a group of talented, young writers - and bloggers - and the goal is simple. Together, we will write a story, with each participating individual writing one chapter of approx. 3,000 words.
 I agreed to write the first part of the story, and then another blogger will take up the challenge. Without further ado, let me introduce "Iron Galleon Beach."

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Iron Galleon Beach, Part One

Summer vacation should not involve mermen. At least, that was Raffi's opinion as he stared at the secluded sandbar in front of them, fangs seething under their protective gums. Nor should it involve bleeding mermen and men with sharp weapons standing over them.

When he and his friends had chosen to visit Iron Galleon Beach for Memorial Day, several things had stood out to Raffi: they did not need visas to arrive to the island, a good thing since Raffi as a vampire could not appear on film. Their beach house had cheap rent despite having three rooms and two bathrooms; and there was no civil wars or coup d'etats going on nearby.  Most importantly, they needed the seclusion in case one of them had an episode, like if Nadia needed to do her werebear transformation, or if Fiona had to whip up some plant magic. The butcher in town didn't ask questions about the large steaks that Raffi had to buy for his health, or that his eyes flickered when facing the blood. It was the perfect vacation spot for four motley monsters.

They had not expected to find poachers here any more than they had expected to find merfolk. That was because Iron Galleon Beach relied on tourism with white people, and thus needed a good public image. A nearby island, Barbados, had received flak for letting the Pirates of the Caribbean people kill dozens of sea turtles while filming. Iron Galleon Beach couldn't afford similar bad press. If Nadia hadn't suggested a morning stroll to explore the island then the four might never have encountered this hidden beach, or the poacher. That was because the beach was hidden by thick mangroves and sawgrass, so that only a keen-eyed girl like Nadia would spot the path. It didn’t have a nice view either, like the other, more popular beaches on the island.

It made Raffi want to swoop down and smack that man silly with his guitar, then chomp down on his neck. Only he had left his guitar at their house. Turning to look at the three people next to him he saw that his friend Nadia wanted to do the same. The hair on her arms had already started to thicken. Alex was turning a shade of dark grey that indicated cold, icy fury. Fiona’s eyes had gone dark green, the color of cool jade.

The man in question had tanned skin, an ugly orange and pink swimsuit that tightened around his crotch too much, and a tight tank top with the same horrid colors. He wore cheap blue sunglasses, but his weapons spoke of expense; he had the merman trapped in a barbed metal net, with a hook wedged into its neck. A large brown satchel was strapped to his back, rattling with other weapons. The merman was struggling to breathe on the beach sand, not able to speak due to its gills not having water. Judging by the coloring and clothes - sheets of red and green kelp knotted around its waist - Raffi had deemed it female. At least until Alex spoke up.

"He's dying," Alex said. "No creature can survive with that amount of blood loss."

Raffi grimaced. It wasn't that he minded the sight of blood; he was a vampire, and on a normal day, he'd be guzzling a pint down with each raw meal to satiate his hunger. He minded the fact that someone was inflicting pain on a magical person like himself and his four friends, and that the person seemed to be enjoying running a large hook through a helpless merman.

The man looked up from his handiwork. He noticed four college graduates staring at him, one that was translucent white, another with dark sunglasses and covered in clothing from head to toe, a girl with plant tattoos swirling over her arms and legs, and another girl slowly growing fur and fangs. He didn't seem phased.

"Seems I have company," he said in a clear American accent. Not a native then, and not one of the locals who catered to the tourists.

"Let the fish go," Alex said, swooping forward. Raffi reached out an arm to stop him, but then realized that Alex was probably the best person to charge. Nothing could harm a ghost, after all, that could harm a living being. Unfortunately, ghosts were not able to harm living beings either, except to possess them and compel them to do strange behavior.

This poacher seemed to know that last bit of knowledge about ghosts because he dropped the net and the hook and sidestepped Alex. Then he whipped a small jar out from his satchel, opened the lid, and held it out. Within a few minutes, all of Alex’s essence ended up inside the jar, trapped. The poacher closed the lid and tucked the jar into his satchel.

Nadia gave a frustrated grunt. Fiona the nymph slapped a delicate palm to her forehead. It sounded like a wooden stick hitting a beech tree. Then she and Nadia moved to get between the poacher and the trapped merman, cutting him off. Her bare feet touched the water and made small ripples.

Raffi ignored Alex's gaffe, leveled eyes with the hunter, revealing his fangs. The sunglasses made him look intimidating, but he wished he were wearing a trench coat instead of a bright green Seminole shirt. Trench coats were too hot for the summer, however, and Raffi try as he might would never appear as an intimidating Edward Cullen or Angel. He also lacked their physical strength and combat skills. Contrary to public myth, vampires did not always possess the power to punch a demon in the face or even crush a human skill. They sometimes had to bluff.

"We don't want to hurt you." Raffi gave a wide grin, showing his fangs. "But it seems you know too much about us. And about . . . them."

He indicated the flopping merman and Alex’s protests from the satchel. The man didn't seem surprised that Raffi was a vampire. He eyed Nadia and Fiona with more appreciate astonishment.

"A vampire. And an idiot ghost. With lady friends."

"Hey!" Alex called from the jar, voice still muffled. "I'm a National Merit Scholar!"

"Alex, let us handle this," Raffi said. He cleared his throat, fangs extended to their full length. "But the 'idiot ghost' is right; let the merman and him go, or we'll tear you to pieces."

"You and what army?" The poacher asked. "It's not like you can call the police."

There was a beat of silence, as the four of them registered this insolence. The poacher's response showed a remarkable level of intelligence for someone who didn't realize he was in trouble.

"You have a point," Raffi admitted. "Given the police are more likely to send us in for dissection and permanent confinement than getting you in the clinker. But that means we're outside the law, which means we can do anything we like to you. And we’re all an army."

"Unless your girlfriends can do more than toss cellphones, then you're really screwed," the poacher snarked. He reached for the satchel strapped to his back; Raffi braced himself.

He almost didn't see the wooden stake coming, the poacher seemed to keep small ones strapped to his Speedo. Raffi dodged the stake but more weapons kept coming. The poacher took the opportunity to land on top of him, straddled his fallen form, and hold a stake to his heart. The wooden tip pricked Raffi’s green shirt.

“Make one move, and I turn your boyfriend into ash,” he told the girls.

The girls had managed to get the hook out of the merman’s neck and had lowered him into the water so that he could breathe. Fiona was busy trying to implement the first aid she had learned in preparation for medical school. Nadia had her hands curled, however. From where he was pinned on the sand, Raffi could see her claws erupting.

“Get your legs off me,” Raffi grunted. “I’m not your type.”

"Everyone's my type," the poacher responded, leaning on him. "And you'll be the type for my latest bidders. They were hoping for seafood, but a live vampire is rare these days. Most of you sunspots burn up the minute wood touches your heart-"

He stopped as the stake pushed away from Raffi's chest. The stake started to wriggle like a serpent and sprout leaves. Then it turned on the poacher, to had to toss it aside.

Fiona's tattoos were writhing like the vines sprouting from the stakes, which had now turned on the poacher; her eyes had turned dark green. Green meant danger, for a nymph's wrath was worse than any fatal stab wound or hook to the neck. The poacher seemed to recognize this bit as well because he tried to back away.

"Let's see here, ladies," he said, reaching into his bag for some other repulsive weapon, "we can surely settle this dispute-"

Raffi took the opportunity to punch the poacher in the groin. It wasn't that much different from punching a piece of rotten fruit, and it had a similar, satisfying squish. The poacher hadn't thought to wear a cup and he yelped as Raffi pushed him off and managed another punch to the larger man's chest. Both scrambled away, and surveyed each other.

Fiona returned her attention to the merman when it gasped and flapped; Nadia then made her move. Her claws were like tiny daggers as she pounced on the poacher and managed to tear off part of his tank top. She had abandoned speech in favor of growling. If the guy hadn't used a satchel to block her, he would've had his chest torn out. He managed to flip away and reach into his duffel, but not before she had morphed into a small brown bear, large enough to tackle him to the ground.

"A foursome?" he cried in surprise and admiration, pulling out a large rifle. "I happened to stumble upon FOUR magical beings now? Is this my lucky or unlucky day?"

"Unlucky," Raffi and Fiona responded. Alex managed to answer as his transparent legs wriggled in the sand. Raffi had balled his hands into fists, but he was unable to charge in and throw a punch while Nadia-bear was trying to tear the guy apart. She was having trouble; If Nadia didn't get a good strike in, the poacher would be lodging a bullet through one of her furry arms.

"Fiona, I need ammo," Raffi said. He dug into his pockets and came out with a tiny bottle of sunscreen, the keys to their beach house, and his wallet. He had learned from a self-defense seminar that women could use keys to defend themselves from violent men, but he wasn't sure if they would be useful when attacking a violent poacher that apparently armed himself with stakes and guns. Sunscreen also wouldn't be useful because it was the stick variant, that you rubbed all over yourself; he should’ve sprung for the spray version, which burned the eyes.

Fortunately, the nymph listened while working their limited knowledge of first aid to try and save the beached mermaid. Small blooms of kelp had sprouted in the shallow water and Fiona used them to clot the blood spurting from the unfortunate fish-boy's neck. She spoke to him calmly, but he was thrashing and not used to this treatment from any human. As she talked and reverted to the language of plants, the vines and roots crept from the nearby dunes. The poacher and Nadia-bear didn't notice while attempting to grapple with each other. Raffi took care to not touch any of the vines, though he saw seed pods on one and slashed his house key against it. Large yellow spores shot at the man, hitting his legs. The poacher swore, giving Nadia an opportunity to push him down. The problem was that she didn't take it because he was still holding that stupid rifle. She merely swiped at him, hesitating for that primal fear.

Raffi decided to step in. He took a chance and grabbed a fistful of the seeds. It made the skin on his palm itch, but he didn't care. Nadia was doing a great deal, but she wasn't doing enough to stop this guy. A vampire sometimes had to pull his weight when fighting a common enemy.

The spores made a better, bigger impact when they hit the poacher's arms. It messed up his concentration and made him drop the rifle. Nadia-bear took the opportunity to kick away the rifle, making sure its firing end got buried deeply in the sand, and to scratch at his pack. Several items fell out, including the jar containing Alex.

"Nadia!" Raffi called. "Forget the firearms. He's trying to escape!"

Indeed, the poacher had realized that despite all possible weapons that he was perhaps out of his league and he was making a quiet getaway. Raffi remembered the time he had accompanied Nadia to that self-defense seminar, the one with the key slashing, and made to body-slam the guy, breaking the poacher's sense of gravity. That was the theory, at least; part of it worked when Raffi managed to knock the guy off-balance and grab his shirt to punch him some more. The problem was that the poacher was apparently used to having vampires body slam him because he stood tall and firm, like a wicked yew tree. Raffi bounced off him, feeling the tank top tear in his arms. His sunglasses cracked.

“It seems you have friends in high places,” the man said as he reached for small grey balls, including Nadia-bear who was rearing for another charge. “You win for now, but I’m not leaving this island empty-handed, and certainly not with an idiot ghost.”

Nadia-bear yelped when the poacher released the balls; they produced tiny explosions and blinding light. Raffi shielded his eyes. Alex couldn’t feel the explosions due to being a ghost and trapped in a jar, but the sand vibrated from the impact. Fiona wasn’t paying attention because she was attempting to apply CPR to the unfortunate merman. By the time everyone recovered, the poacher had vanished.

"You know," Raffi said to the sky, "we didn’t come here to fight. We came to relax."

His left hand was still clutching the poacher's shirt. It smelled like rotten fish, salt, and ash. Nadia-bear couldn’t change herself back into a human for a couple of hours, but she could regain her human thoughts. She crouched down and bit on a stake. Within a few minutes, Raffi was free. He sat up, stroked the scratch on his black lenses, and moved to help Fiona. So did the others.

“What did I miss?” Alex asked as he struggled out of jar and onto the sand. When they all gave him a funny look, even Nadia with her large black bear eyes, he said, “How was I supposed to know that the dude knew about ghosts? Most of them freak out when they see me going white!”

“You need to work on your scare tactics,” Raffi said grimly, rubbing his arms where the stakes had pinned him to the sand. “Now I think that dude wants us all in a cage, since we cost him his fish boy.”

"Don't speak ill of the dying," Fiona said sharply; she never snapped, so they all turned to look at her. Nadia-bear shuffled over and sniffed the bleeding merman; it shied away and started to panic. Fiona ordered Nadia-bear to stand at a distance, so as not to panic her patient.

They forgot about the poacher and the fact that he had gotten away; what mattered was saving one of their brethren. Fiona did what she could to staunch the blood, but it kept coming. The poacher’s hook seemed to have severed an artery, so that no bandages could stop the unwanted gush of red. Fiona’s hands and clothes became coated in blood but she kept trying to save him.

Raffi knew nothing about first aid, The others all did what they could to help. Nadia-bear was purring to the merman while supporting his head. Bears could purr like cats, and Raffi had learned that the sound was calming to most animals. This didn't seem to help the merman though, because he was still thrashing about. Perhaps he thought Nadia-bear wanted to eat him. Alex started to hum a low chant, probably one meant for easing pain. That seemed to go better, though the chant made everyone quiet and sober.

Raffi stared at where the poacher had vanished. His hands were still aching from where they had clutched Fiona’s seed pods and he was still clutching the poacher’s torn shirt.

"He got away," he said. "That jerk got away. He knows we have a vampire in the group and other unusual creatures."

Oddly enough, Raffi wasn’t that worried about being put on the market and sold as a living vampire. That fear was an abstraction, a cautionary tale used after Twilight had made vampires a popular commodity for wealthy women. He was more worried about his friends, and about being outed, since that had happened before.

The dude knows we’re on the island. It’s a small town, and he might find out where we live. He could plan to catch us off guard, so as not to leave “empty-handed”.

Raffi used a much worse word than "jerk," when the merman lay still and stopped breathing, head lying in the water. The smell of blood and salt made him feel queasy, even for vampire standards.

Fiona took a moment, still tightening the knots on the makeshift bandage for the merman. Nadia-bear growled, sniffing the air. Then she shuffled over and sniffed the torn cloth in Raffi’s hands. Before he could stop her, the were-bear gave a great snort and started trundling off, running off into the mangroves. Raffi groaned and Alex soared after Nadia-bear.

Why did our summer vacation have to involve mermen?

Writing for Other People

"On This Site in 1987, Nothing Happened". Vacation photo from the Casablanca restaurant in Los Angeles.

Hi everyone. I was away on vacation for the past week, visiting California with family. Later I may write a blog post about it, but first I want to talk about a topic that has recently become important in my life: writing for other people. By that I mean writing a story for another person on request, the plot to their specifications. It's very much like commissioning a work of art in words, and you can even do them for birthdays or for Secret Santas during Christmas. Other times you can do them for an anthology, or when ghost-writing for a well-known author. This post will cover these various options.

First, writing for your friends and family. I find this a personal pleasure because people usually give me ideas and a lot of flexibility. My writing has recently improved over the past year as well, so I usually don't skimp on plot or implausible resolutions. The friends who read the tales appreciate that someone took the time to pay attention to their ideas, to expand on them and create a small world in which unique ideas and requests exist.

Let me turn to two varying examples. On May 4, my story "The Soothsayer" was published in Sorcerous Signals magazine. I hope that anyone who can donate to the magazine will, because it was an honor to have editor Carol Hightshoe choose my work. "The Soothsayer" was written for my friend and fellow author Corissa Glasheen, who was suffering a rough week and a sick day. She asked for a story about a psychic whose power involves dead people, and that it was all. I wrote a tale that fit the bill, albeit one that also involved the Sleeping Beauty story and talked about kings and queens. Carol Hightshoe liked it as much as Cory did.

For her birthday last year, Cory asked for a story about cosplaying, or dressing up as your favorite fictional character. I wrote a complicated tale about a cosplayer designing a Big Ben costume, Big Ben being the clock in London. Half the people who have read the tale, including Cory, love it; the other half dislike it because they have no idea what's going on. One day I'll figure out how to revise the story so that it doesn't confuse the other half, but it fills my heart with pleasure to know that Cory enjoyed the tale.

Cory is one of the most poetic young writers hitting the South Florida atmosphere, so you should totally read her blog and story in the upcoming Flux-Fiction Anthology

Image source: http://thelittleprotege.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/DSCF2220-copy-copy.jpg

Matt Anderson and I have had some soul-searching discussions on the topic, for reasons that I'll mention below. He and I agree that we should write to please ourselves first, and to write for friends if you can and they like your writing but he and I differ on what it means to write for other people that will pay you for your work. Here I am referring to anthologies, or  "a published collection of writings (such as poems or short stories) by different authors" according to Merriam-Webster online.

Anthologies often center around a given theme, from shape-shifting to supernatural prom nights to bad kisses, and rely on unique author voices to tell different tales. Most fantasy and science fiction authors have contributed to or created various anthologies: Bruce Coville of Unicorn Chronicles fame has assembled about half a dozen, as has Jane Yolen, Terri Windling and Ellen Datlow. Neil Gaiman recalls how an anthology prompt saved him from a weekend of writer's block in his short story collection Smoke and Mirrors, and Justine Larbalestier blogged with glee about the fictional battles between zombies and unicorns in their titular anthology.

Not making this up; this anthology exists. I'm Team Unicorn.

Image source: https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4107/4841309602_bd3c077758_z_d.jpg

Cory was kind enough to introduce me to a local fantasy author Philip McCall II in the fall. After reading the first chapter of my wolf novel, Phil asked me and Cory if we could contribute to his latest anthology, Flux-Fiction Volume I. He made the same request to Matt after reading one of the latter's short stories, liking the writing. He gave us each a prompt, a character from his God Gates universe, plot outlines and a reasonable deadline. After the emails with such information, Phil then made himself available on Facebook so that we could ask questions and even provided visual references for some of the characters.

It was quite a new experience, receiving permission to write about another author's characters and to not have to slap the fan fiction label onto my story. Having an established continuity and characters, much like when writing fan fiction, helped ease the writing process because I only had to make up the details. Knowing that the author had given us each a tremendous opportunity increased pressure, however, since we were putting various spins on his beloved characters.

 Phil kept encouraging me however; he had chosen us to write because he believed in our prose. He knew that we could come up with powerful narratives, nerves aside, and that we would turn in our stories before the May deadline. As a writer himself, Phil also knows that encouragement keeps inspiration and creative determination alive; when I sent him my story's first thousand words, for example, he sent back a raving response and mentioned the excerpt on Facebook. Knowing that he enjoyed the prose so much gave me the confidence to finish, and to write an action-packed, bloody tragedy. It was a great joy to know that such words could come from my fingertips, and that the story pleased more than one person. Matt and Cory's tales are also amazing, and I have read enough of V.B. Kennedy's prose to know that her story will be a hit.

I like writing for other people because I can make them happy, and because the most delicious words arise from such a creative challenge. Knowing that I can rise to the challenge makes me excited for more writing prompts, like from Eggplant Literary Publishing for their children's magazine Spellbound. It also makes me excited to write a new tale for Cory this year for her birthday, to see what ideas will emerge from her requests.

Winter is Coming: A Discussion of Samhain

Blogger friends inspire the most creative and connected blog entries. The verbose and gentleman scholar Matt Anderson, after doing a wonderful Halloween countdown on his blog, wrote about the pagan summer festival Beltane/ . Matt happens to live in Australia, so it's technically not time Samhain in the land down under, or the harvest festival that precludes Halloween and inspired it.

 Image source: http://farm2.staticflickr.com/1101/5120015171_420b316aa8.jpg

We Americans, unless we practice Wicca, do not have Samhain. We have trick-or-treating, Halloween specials, haunted houses and costumes. These aspects are not bad things, because we no longer have a reason to fear winter. Americans, and most of the Western world, have access to food and shelter all year round. I for one live in Florida, where we have vegetables and fruits growing in the middle of December, and my family is lucky to have food and an insulated house every day. Not because of the cold, but because of the rodents that would take nibbles out of our tomatoes at night, and they would freak out my mom and older sister. Also, we had to watch our tomatoes and bananas more carefully.

Image source: http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2263/1794529842_6147e4392a.jpg

For civilizations that lacked preservatives, refrigeration and mass-production of food, however, winter was a scary time. People had to fight for their lives, and witness the world dying around them. Food would become scarce, blizzards would bury villages for weeks, the cold could freeze over cattle's nostrils, and people would huddle in their homes while listening to monster tales. Rats and mice would huddle with them, stealing whatever food they could find. It was a time when ordinary people feared Grendel the monster storming their homes in the dead of winter, eating the bravest warriors and taking no heed of weapons. Even if Grendel was no more real than the dragon that St. George fought, or the Headless Horseman, but nature was not friendly with ice and snow.

Samhain in the olden times meant preparing for the winter, celebrating the harvest that would feed villages while offering deference to the wild, natural forces. People would light bonfires, set cattle bones ablaze as a promise of life in the cold, and take a portion of the flame home to enliven their hearths.

 Image source: http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5203/5319305597_10d8b2eb92_o.jpg

In addition to warmth that battled the cold, people prepared for fae, or ancient spirits, to cross over into our world. For this day, October 31st, people would leave out food offerings to feed the spirits and make room for dead family members at the dinner table. Others would wear costumes and go from house to house, to imitate the spirits in their demands for food and treats. Imitation was apparently a form of flattery, for the spirits encouraged this sort of behavior each year.

Samhain makes for an interesting holiday because it begs one fascinating question: how has our fear changed, and how did changing fears change this festival into a secular holiday? As noted above, though people still go hungry each year, most Americans don't and in fact suffer the opposite problem with obesity. Parents now worry about sugar highs and crashes, if their kids can handle haunted houses and horror movies.

For me, Halloween is having a secure net of fear. We invite scary things when dressing up because we know that they can't hurt us, and in this way we court death, treating our worst fears like playmates. We get to change into other creatures, to entertain our friends and walk into the night.

 

Image source: http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3070/2991438531_2ef689fd03.jpg

On that note, I didn't wear a proper Halloween costume this year. That won't stop me from planning for next year, for dressing up for one day as someone else. Perhaps I'll find a fairy spirit to imitate, or a Disney princess to emulate.

But for now? I'll just sit back, await the green winter to come, and enjoy the darkness.

The Writing Zone

Hi all long time no see. There's loads of news, however, that I will reveal. First, on November 1 Indian SF is publishing my short story "The Lion in the Wave," on their website; be sure to check it out and to give the magazine your support if you can provide anything, from readership to funds. "Lion" is an ocean story, about my fear of large waves and how their crashes sound like lions' roars, and it's my first successful attempt at a literary style.

The reason I've been AWOL is because I've been working on a novella for an editor, a fantasy horror novella expanded from a short story that I finished in the fall. The time that I would have spent crafting a response to a StoryDam prompt instead went into reading about Tarot, studying the language behind Ray Bradbury's novel Something Wicked This Way Comes, listening to my new beta reader's comments on the story, and writing about twenty thousand words in a week and several days. The editor is reading the novella this week, so I have my fingers crossed.

"Carousel" is about a haunted orchestra conductor who fears a strange creature called the Piper, a humanized force of chaos that steals children with his magic flute. He suddenly makes reappearance at her university, first taking the sound away from orchestra rehearsal. She has to become someone she hasn't been in a while to confront the person who summoned the Piper, as well as to get rid of him.

Novellas typically start at twenty thousand words, which is roughly one hundred pages double-spaced, with Times New Roman font sized 12. I have written three thousand words a day, every other day. With that track record, I thought adding twelve thousand words to an eight thousand word short story would be a cinch. I'd set up my computer at night, or during two hours I had free in the morning, and type away. I even had a day off I knew the story's plot, what I wanted the characters to do. All I had to do was write, write write, which is what I enjoy doing! Surely nothing could be easier!

I couldn't have been more wrong. See, the times I had been writing three thousand words a day had involved some form of having three or four hours a day to write freely, or when I had been willing to stay up till midnight putting in the work. They were also part of fanfiction, which I have always found easier to write than original fiction-- that will be another blog post's subject. Original fiction requires the brain to produce more description, in terms of picturing the world and how the characters act. I had to borrow liberally from my university campus, and then memoirs of driving to Miami Beach at night for the new climax.

To immerse myself into the novella's world, to be able to expand, to explain, to make deeper characterizations, I had to swallow the necessary language, research, and suspension of disbelief. Something Wicked This Way Comes inspired part of the story, including the title, but only in terms of how a fun place or object has creepier implications, that you have to cling to joy and laughter to fight the darkness that threatens your soul. Bradbury's prose also emphasizes that not all parents fail their children in times of crisis, and that sometimes an adult can provide wisdom that the children lack. I consider it one of his more uplifting, nostalgic tales about the wandering carnivals that don't appear any more these days.

I also had to answer a lot of questions. My first beta reader had complained that draft four hadn't held enough back stories. Beta reader two didn't complain about that, but rather about how the protagonist let weeks of time go by before taking action, and that the climax did not satisfy him. A male love interest had no personality or motivation, and the Piper wasn't threatening enough. Both readers went on a long rant, which meant that they liked the story and were frustrated by its shortcomings.

The story had to change. I ended up throwing out the old ending, which had survived six drafts, and crafted a new one. That took four hours to write, on two separate days. Only then, sweaty and relieved, did I email the draft to the editor, who was gracious enough to accept my submission and who let me resubmit it with correct formatting.

"Carousel" taught me many things: one, a story can always get longer. Sometimes it will stretch like an anaconda, demanding that you count every scale on its body till you reach the end, sweaty and exhausted. Sometimes you have to let that anaconda grow, and grow, so that you can get the best story possible.

Two, always answer a readers' questions. Though Stephen King likes to write short horror stories that have no explanation for the supernatural causes, we cannot all be Stephen King and the age to abruptly blame haunted laundry machines on nightshade and mandrake root has passed and gone rotten in the grave. When two readers want back story, even if you dislike flashbacks, provide back story. Connect characters that were previously drifting like bits of seaweed in an ocean current.


Three, write what you know, and what you only know. Not every writer has played in an orchestra like I have, and not every person noticed the clock tower that played melodies at noon on my university campus.

Next post will be about Halloween, and I promise it will be on time, maybe on Thursday. We'll see what I can write this week.

What Diana Wynne Jones Meant to Me

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If you want to be a good writer, you have to be a good reader. You may have even wanted to write because of the books you read and enjoyed; this happened to me after reading Harriet the Spy, but I digress.

I deeply regret that I did not discover Diana Wynne Jones until middle school, when I found a copy of Seeing is Believing in the library and picked it up for its title. When you have stories where a girl with mumps creates a story with a bloodthirsty heroine that comes to life, a writer who finds success after getting a computer (and the customary typos), and the story of a cat who helps a stupid magician's servant, you have no choice but to find the rest of the authors' books. I discovered A Charmed Life, Dogsbody, The Homeward Bounders, and proceeded to read every book by her in both the school and public library.

Diana Wynne Jones taught me that anything can be magical, whether it's the green flakes in a chemistry kit or a Friendly Cow. She also taught me Murphy's Law for fantasy novels: anything that can go wrong with magic will, and the disasters will make you laugh. Wizards do not always appreciate people cleaning their houses for that, and they are not necessarily elderly, well-behaved gentlemen; sometimes they are angry fathers pretending to be evil magicians. Heroes won't always know who's in trouble, or how to correct their spells; sometimes you might break your neck twice and still live. Use every implement that you introduce, since golden bricks may be useful to drop on the villain's toes.

Villains can be hidden in plain sight; your parents may not be the villains, but they are certainly no help when push comes to shove. Kids have to rely on their own magical objects and abilities, even if they didn't know that they have abilities. Don't underestimate a pit of orange juice or a cocoon of bookcases if your college roommate is targeted by assassins. Also don't underestimate the insults that brothers can exchange after one decides to attend university.

Most of all, there are no formulas to follow. Jones admired Tolkien's work, but she came to mock the sword and sorcery fantasy that succeeded Lord of the Rings; that fact made me admire her the most. For the record, I tried reading Lord of the Rings twice, and I learned that there is such a thing as too much description. Not all villains are pure evil, and you shouldn't have to travel alone. There is more than one way to solve a problem, especially if you are creative; there is no need to slay dragons with swords when a hot chili pepper will do.

Rest in peace, Diana, and thank you for your writing.

I commented on a blog that criticized Neil Gaiman's "The Problem of Susan" which is a critical look at the Chronicles of Narnia. Here is an excerpt of her argument:

"“The Problem of Susan”, to me, is a whole different question. It’s not an assault on God; it’s a specific, personal assault on one specific person’s affectionately rendered depiction of his beliefs. C.S. Lewis wrote Aslan to reflect his experience of God, and as I’ve said, that man loved God like nothing else. Whether you agree with him or not, he wrote Aslan with such absolute sincerity and love. I think it is unkind to take such an honest expression of someone’s religious devotion, and do this with it; no matter how much you disagree with him, or find his beliefs about women/God/whatever, to be damaging. It makes me feel all yucky to read this part of the story – a reaction I don’t think I’ve had to something I’ve read since this horrible book I got for my eleventh birthday, the contents of which I don’t remember at all, but which upset me so much I hid it under the couch and still couldn’t sleep knowing it was in the house so I got up and threw it in the trash and poured wet coffee grounds on top of it."

You have a legitimate argument, Jenny. I agree that the dream is disturbing, but I think that was Neil's point. (He admits that in the introduction after explaining his bout of meningitis.) The story was deliberately irreverent because Neil wants to remind everyone that Narnia is, at heart, just a story. At the same time, it shows the power of children stories, especially with the Mary Poppins dream. (I know what you mean about horrible books, though. The first Sandman volume made me feel the same way. Twilight made me feel that someone had taken what could've been a great book and chopped the ending into firewood and hamburger meat.)
"The Problem of Susan" is more about security, or the loss of it. Susan as an adult no longer feels secure concerning God; that's why she dreams of Mary Poppins, who is the ultimate form of security. She rescues the Banks children from constant mishaps and manages to keep the household running and stable, even when she leaves.
That said, I think the story could have been done better. It's like the Graveyard Book could have been done better with the plot. But I keep rereading both of them because Neil's style is freaking beautiful, sad, and addicting.
We should email each other. This was a fun article.

Action => Reaction

Here's a lesson I've learned from writing: no one likes a passive protagonist. We could have observant narrators in ye olden classics, but in modern stories editors want heroes who do stuff.
Exceptions to the rule can occur, however; Countess de Winter from Rebecca remains pretty passive throughout the novel, but she does do stuff.
That leads us to the reluctant hero, who doesn't want to handle the responsibility handed out to them. I love reluctant heroes, especially the ones that fail to do the job right sometimes. (Case in point: Peter Parker as Spiderman.) We all say that something must be done, but only true heroes do stuff when confronted with it. And even those heroes may continue to make the same mistakes, as we do.
"Sugar and Spice," which will be submitted to a magazine this week, started out as a short story exercise with a passive narrator. Then I made the narrator more active, but he didn't do enough. (Also, the editors didn't relate to him or his best friend, since they were careless.)
I just rewrote the story from another perspective, from a character who does a lot more and is more human than his companions. This sixth draft needs more polishing, but when it's softened I am sure that it will find a magazine.

Score!

Allow me to say this before beginning . . .

YEAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Aphelion Webzine published a short doll story that I sent them, "Niloufar's Friends," about a father who tries to keep his daughter innocent. It's up now, with a one sentence description.

In general, that story shows how much tamer I've become because I've been thinking about life and death in literature. It's like marriage and love; if you use it too much, then you devalue it. And if Niloufar had killed her treacherous friend, she would have had to climb up from a deeper pit of morality. (Ironically, I then read a Joanne Harris book over the summer where Anouk Rocher gave ringworm to three bullies; I swear I did not copy it!)

It's somewhat autobiographical, because I did have an EasyBake oven before I tried to use it to make clay pots and a friend did tell me the exact same words about feeling sorry for me. (That was last spring, actually.) I was upset the whole day after that.

The idea came from an AlienSkin magazine contest about evil dolls and toys. I wrote another story with evil toys, but I knew it would be too long to meet the typical word count. "Niloufar" was cut because the dolls in it actually weren't evil, just misguided.

I'm surprised they labeled it as fantasy, and not dark fantasy, because it is dark; horror may have been too extreme. It is also probably inaccurate regarding Iranians, as I based the culture in that book from the lovely stories Reading Lolita in Tehran and Persepolis. In other words, a lot of Persians are going to send angry emails.



I'll deal with it though. The whole point of me writing about people that are not Indian, white or American is to diversify myself and become a better author.