The book I desperately needed

I think Blogger may have saved me from a “Bad” post, as I still cannot get blogger to accept the fact that gifs are files too. I’m pretty nervous about my class tonight, it’s the first time I’ve lectured more than the thirty minutes prior to a lab, so I’m crossing my fingers that I won’t have the dreaded death of projector, or blue screen, or any other number of fun things that have happened to me while giving talks (One time, ppt ate all of my images—every single one—so instead of my pretty graphics, a giant red “X” marked the place where they should have been; I had to draw them all out on the board ::shakes fist at the electronic presentation gods:: ).

So, I’m going to join in a blog fest I heard about through Jenny. 

Check out the details over here at Writer Coaster.

Today I’ll tackle the book that made me know I was doomed to be a writer, and honestly, seriously, there was no one book. It was the lack of a book. It wasn't until I was much older that I knew I couldn't stop. The signs were there in my early life, I just didn’t pay much attention at the time.

I like to say that I wrote my first novel at 12, and that’s true in the technical sense of the words. But even at twelve I’d already shown certain, well, I guess we’ll call them symptoms.

In kindergarten, I wrote and illustrated a series of picture books about Buzzy the Hammerhead shark with a buzz saw instead of a hammer for a head. The other sharks all laughed at him, but he eventually found his way. He saved the day because the other sharks all got caught in a net, and Buzzy cut open the net with his awesome buzz saw. 

This was a five book series, mind you.

But my pallet of crayon and stapled butcher paper was too restrictive. So I made a special edition in water color, one in finger paints, and one in glued construction paper cut outs.

If I’d had an agent at six and a half, I would have told her all about my plans for a PB series based around a unicorn with two horns called Double Trouble (yes, I thought it was the most imaginative title on the planet). The only problem was that horses—and by extension, unicorns—are hard to draw well, so I decided to wait before launching my Double Trouble series until I could learn to draw horses a little better.

But at six and seven years old, I didn’t realize how much of the world was coming my way and that I needed a plan in life. Besides that, I was dead set and determined to be just like my mom, a computer programmer for the county (yeah, all kinds of glamour there). So even though I was cranking out books before I had lost my baby teeth, I didn’t know that I wanted to be a writer.

Over the next five to six years leading up to my first novel attempt, I read every book my mother had in the house, and let me tell you there were a lot. I remember once going with my mom to the book store and she walked down the Science Fiction aisle with a little frown on her face. She finally picked up a book hopefully, but as she read the back cover she sighed and set the book down. I asked what was wrong, and she said—I kid not—“Oh, I just thought I’d found one I hadn’t read yet.”

So lots of books in the house.

When trying to get me to do my homework assignments in my phonics book, the teacher said to me “Why don’t you do the homework?”

I said, “Because it’s boring.”

“What’s boring about it?” she asked. Clearly she was trying to discern my grammar deficiencies.

Then I said, “Because it has no plot.” After that my first grade teacher stopped trying to get me to do the boring phonics book.

By the time I was in third grade, I thought chapter books and middle grade books were for idiots who couldn’t read Silverberg and Heinlein (sadly, it appears I was born a snob). Leading up to the ripe old age of twelve, my favorite place in the world was the used book store. I read everything I could get my hands on, literally. I read Conan the Barbarian and the adventures of Han Solo. By Twelve I’d read every word written by Alan Dean Foster, and if it had a little rocket on the binding in the library I’d read that too. I have no idea how I read so many books when I was a kid, ‘cause, seriously, I spent a ton of time watching TV too, but there you have it.

And speaking of TV, there was only one show that I was particularly interested in from the time I was about ten years old: Star Trek. Now don’t get me wrong, I loved Star Wars too. In fact, in my family, when you were sick enough to stay home you had to stay on the couch and watch a movie. Star Wars was the movie set of choice, but there was a problem with Star Wars: there were only three movies (Yes, I'm old enough to remember a time before the prequels). Star Trek came out with a new episode every week. Not that I could get those episodes, mind you. Out in the sticks we didn’t have very good TV reception, but my grandmother lived in town. She had TV, and as soon as I went to middle school, I had to go over to my grandmother’s after school. Ah, those were the years, watching Star Trek TNG and dreaming my great classical science fiction dreams (usually I tried to fit a horse in there, as I still hadn’t forgotten about Double Trouble, I’d just grown up too much to write those stories).

And then I went to Barnes and Noble in the nearby actual big city (Santa Rosa, CA, for the curious), and there they were: Star Trek Novels. It was like someone had made a seamless cross between the perfect game of tag and ice cream. I was in heaven. Except that they cost so much and my mom would only buy me one. I read the book on the way home. I needed more. Then by some magic, the used book store came across a whole pile of Star Trek Novels. They’d never had them before, but suddenly they had a ton. I bought them ($2.25 to 3.50 each, and I spent a lot of money on those books). As I went with my favorite characters on their grand adventures, I became more connected to them, understood them better than before, and I couldn’t get enough. I started saving money to buy the new ones, asking the local book store to order them (which they kindly did), until one day, the nice lady said she couldn’t order the next one. “Why not?”

“It hasn’t been released. It won’t be out for six months or so,” she said. I was devastated. It was about to be the summer between middle school and high school and I wasn’t going to have a Star Trek novel to read and reread. And that’s when it struck me: I’ll have to write one myself.

And yeah, that’s pretty much how that went. I wrote my first novel (it was a terrible fan fic, but very fun for me). Even after writing a novel I didn’t know that I wanted to be a writer. Sometimes, the dumb gets backstage passes to the rest of my brains.

For me, it wasn’t one book, but the lack of a book that sent me over, sort of like the flash point of paper, you know 451 (Fahrenheit).

I went to a conference

there was a post here, but blogger ate it.

I don't know what went wrong, but blogger and I had a philosophical difference. I thought blogger should let me post gifs. Blogger did not.

I think I found the culprit, but we'll see.


I'll try to repost tomorrow.

::shakes fist at blogger::

Sorry world, I'll curb my enthusiasm,

Right, so the world has this way of making me realize that I shouldn’t complain, not ever. You know that adage “Things could always get worse”? For me, the second I complain, oh yeah, worse.

So last Monday I mentioned the running around with cheerio nose stuffing kid and a box of quail. Well this week, I’ve learned that my job now pays half as much for quadruple the work (I know, no complaining, I have a job, but half? ouch, that hurts. But, as they say: some is WAY better than none).

That’s right, I get to teach a lecture course. My first lecture course EVER. I found out about this today. My first class: next week Tuesday. And all I have to do is drive from ABQ to Cali for a funeral in between (fear not, we have a full time house sitter, so no worries on the house thief front). Oh right, and there’s this little thing called WriteOnCon (seriously, you haven’t heard of this, go, go now, you can read my schmutz any day, WriteOnCon is once a year). Before I start class I have to come up with ppt presentations, an outline for the course, my grading policy, my syllabus. Not all from scratch, but it's a shock to go from being someones minion to being the big cheese (I can even order up a side helping of minion if I want).

So yeah, I have to get my skittles together and put some spit shine on my shoes, trade in my pirate glasses (seriously, I have the jolly roger on my glasses) for those silly respectable glasses, and put all my Star Wars T-shirts into a drawer. Honestly, I have three wardrobes: conferences for really esoteric, nerdy scientists, funerals (not really appropriate for teaching classes: the students take it as a bad sign, like you’re mourning their grades or something) and obnoxious t-shirts. Nothing in between. Well, except my costumes, but I just can’t see teaching in my brown coat get up.

Ah, and speaking of costumes, “Now Dr. Horrible is here.”  (If everyone is really unlucky, I might someday post a youtube of me singing that song. Hmm... maybe a "treat" for when I defend.)

I wish everyday could be a Howie Lab Coat Day (with thigh high boots, of course!).

Maybe I should teach my lecture course in that…

Stranger than Fiction Monday

I believe it was Mark Twain (AKA Samuel Clemens) who said fiction had to be believable, but fact has no such constraints—paraphrased, obviously. And honestly, moments in my life definitely qualify. So here I present Stranger than fiction Monday. No I don’t know if this’ll be something I do regularly, I mean really, I don’t know if I’m getting paid next month, why would I have my blog nailed down when I can’t even keep my real life together?

Assuming I do manage to get this up and running on a regular basis, people can feel free to ask whatever questions they like, and I’ll do my best to answer them (sorry, I missed your question about the size of a road runner, Jen, but they’re basically land bound, overgrown pigeons with cool plumage). When I don’t have questions, I’ll regale everyone with strange stories from my myriad odysseys (and yes, that is the right way to describe most of my stories).

Without further ado: Stranger than Fiction.

You know how most people have stories that start out with “My friends and I were at the bar”? Well, I don’t have stories like that. I can actually count the number of times I’ve been in a bar on my fingers (and even those only happen at conferences and airports). No, all of my crazy stories go more like “So, I was out in the field.”

I was on a field trip with the people at UCSB, it was a tour of Death Valley (pretty awesome place really), and it was May. I mention what time of year it was because, you know, Death Valley is really hot. No, I don’t mean like a little bit hot, I mean like make tea in your water bottle hot (then burn your lips when you try to take a drink). I got a nosebleed the second I stepped out of the van (yes, for all my bluff and bravado, I am the nosebleed person, damnit). I was also deemed one of the more responsible people, so they let me drive one of the 14 passenger vans—their first mistake. Well, it had been a really long, hot day, and considering that we had a permit from BLM, we decided we’d call it an evening at seven o’clock. It was still 100 degrees (Fahrenheit, of course, I’m in the US here). One of the professors knew of a really great place to camp, a nice wash with a soft sandy bed that practically never had water in it. So we four wheeled it in our giant Econoline vans, through the creosote bushes to the sandy (read car eating) wash.

Now, I don’t know how many of you have had much experience with the desert, but a creosote bush is a plant that has a characteristic scent. In fact the scent is creosote (hence the name) but it smells of rotting flesh when you bruise it.

Seriously, this bush smells like rotting garbage.

And we drove through it.

Yeah, really smart.

But wait, there’s more. I should have stopped following directions much earlier in this particular trip, and now that I think about, they may have been directing me into things for the fun of it, but I hit a big old rock. Ugh. Econoline spins out in sand, I’m stuck. And it smells like someone exhumed a recent grave nearby. At this point, it’s starting to look like the beginning of a horror flick… the college kids trapped in the desert with the rising undead, will they make it through the night?

One of the burly undergrads who still had something to prove, comes over and looks at the scene. He decides to roll the giant rock out of the way (I’d only just barely hit it, but there was only so much room between it and a boulder that would have actually capsized the van). Oh, yeah, did I mention I was the lead van driver? Yeah, that’s me, holding up the other three because I hit a rock.

Well, burly guy one bends over and pulls and pulls and pulls. Nothing. He calls over some of the others, and they rig up a lever, and with these guys pushing on this rock they finally turn it away from the van. The face that had been facing the van pulls up into full view of the sun, and it says “R.I.P. 1492.”

The burly guys drop the rock while screaming like little girls. I mean, I can hardly blame them, it does smell like rotting flesh, I can see how they might have thought for just a second or two that there was a body nearby (one that I might have actually been driving over), but they manned up and finished the job so the rest of the vans could get to the chosen campsite. (The chosen campsite possibly ringed by the resting places of the undead!)

By some strange, silent agreement, none of the guys who touched the rock said anything about it, but there were plenty of witness (including yours truly), and that night around the campfire we told stories. We started out with Bundy and his gang (one of his known hideouts was very near death valley) and of course, when talking about mass murderers, we got into ghost stories.

Well, what better fodder for ghost stories than the one about the vengeful spirit of the disturbed tomb on the edge of camp.

I let them go on for a bit, trading stories about how one time his aunt had heard/felt/seen something that was just like this time. And then the time his brother had went into a cave and found a bone then couldn’t sleep for weeks. Then one guy with dilated pupils, and a t-shirt with a pot leaf on it said, “But aren’t you the least bit worried that the ghost of that corpse is going to haunt you?”

I blinked. Everyone at the campfire turned their eyes to me. I am a girl after all, I’m supposed to say something like “Oh, I’m so scared, maybe someone should sleep close to my tent tonight, just in case.” But really, I’d been driving all day long, with enough nosebleeds and dehydration to tax the patience of a saint, and well, I’m not a saint. I’m a scientist.

I sighed the long suffering sigh of someone speaking with the mentally impaired (okay, that was probably rude, but I’d had enough egging on at that point), but if I could have rolled my eyes any farther, they’d have come up the bottom. “And you think I’m going to be haunted by the English speaking native American who died in 1492? Prior to the conquistadors? Seriously? Did you remember to pack your brain when you came on this trip? 1492, puhleeze.”

Everyone laughed, even the girly screaming burly boys laughed—in no small part relief, I’m sure.

But seriously, who’s lucky enough to hit the only freakin fake tombstone in Death Valley? Me. That’s who.

Oh, and no, I was not haunted by Native American (nor cowboy, nor conquistador) as a result of my dances with tombstones.

Short cuts

I’ve finished my read through of my soon to be query bait, and it needs something dreadful: rewrites. Okay, well not full rewrites (at least not that I can see, which is a subject to change with time), but a rewrite of the single most important part: the end!

I totally took the cheap route out. I got to the climax and punched the ticket. Credits roll and I’m awesome, or maybe not. See, I know better. I rush endings. I always have. I’m like a barn sour horse. I get heading back to home and suddenly I’m writing like a demon, dropping details, and rushing the scenery.

I’m not very good with tension in these settings, if you can imagine that.

So now it’s back to the drawing board on some crucial scenes at the end. I should know the old adage by now “If you have time enough to do it twice, surely you had time to do it right the first time.”

Where do you take shortcuts?

Where I am honest, angry and sad

I’m very sad today. This is not a funny post. My S.O.’s favorite aunt died yesterday in a motorcycle accident.

It’s like a curtain just fell over the world. Yesterday, there were things that were so important. Today, those things are like ants at a picnic, small, annoying and almost beneath my notice.

I’ll not lie, my family has been through a lot of tragedy in recent years. My 34 year old brother had a terrible stroke that nearly killed him. Two of my grandparents died within 4 months of each other. For a long time, I just wore black because there was nothing I could say to express myself anymore. It was like my words had all left me.

This just feels impossible. She was so strong and solid. She would have taken over the world if someone hadn’t needed to keep the family in line and get dinner on the table.

I’m angry at the world. I’m not a fool, I know life isn’t fair—and thank all the gods anyone has ever thought to pray to for that; if the world were fair we’d deserve this shit—but this is just such a kick to the groin.

And I feel so guilty because we hadn’t gone out to visit in a long time. We hadn’t even sent pictures since Christmas.

All of us get that phone call, the one at an odd hour. You look at your phone and know there’s no good news on the other end. If you haven’t had one, it’s really just a matter of time. The only way not to get this phone call is to have no one you love. This is the risk of love.

I don’t have any words of wisdom like “go hug your aunt,” or “life is short.” Those words are true but also trite. They are the words society has taught us so we have a response when we are hurt and reeling from the disbelief that now there is a gaping hole in the family. Society has taught us these words because otherwise we’d scream our invocations to the powers that be, and when we receive less than ameliorating response, we would curse the gods who have seemingly turned their backs on us. So we have social norms, to couch the pain into pat answers. I’m not a fan of social norms.**

Damn it, I hate this part of life. 

** If my lack of sensibilities has offended, I do apologize. It is not my intent to hurt others, only to express myself while I still have words.