Many Worlds Made by Many Minds

Cold winds

2012-01-19T13:19:00.000-05:00

Outside, the wind is blowing so hard I can feel it passing through the walls and gnawing at my feet. Sometimes I swear we live in a wind tunnel. We may, given that we live on a north-south road, on a hill in the Heldebergs. Simply put, the strip of road that is cleared for the trees funnels all the wind here, and it pours down from the peak with a vengeance.

I also live in a beautiful area however. For the inconvenience of a half-hour drive, I'm near enough to our state capitol, I can walk to a lovely reservoir and enjoy cheery sunrises and sunsets over the water, and for a little less driving, there are several wildlife preserves nearby.

It really is a nice place all in all. Which of course, doesn't explain why I would like to leave it. Though I do. Mostly I dream of traveling; other times, I would love to move to the UK, maybe live near Solihul or just outside Wolverhampton; and if not those, I think I'd like to take up the family home out by Syracuse, where I can enjoy fifteen acres of land with fruit trees and memories yet still be able to comfortably ride a bike to the nearest Barnes & Noble.

I really don't know what my actual plans are, except that I want something different. And how this ties in with me posting here today after so very long, is that here as well, I want something different. No,I need something different, but I don't know what yet. So, I'll keep this place on the back burner until I know more, and I will ponder and consider what it might be.

Murder and Mayhem; Death in Our Eyes

2011-06-14T23:52:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine lost his mother last Friday. Neither sudden nor unexpected, her death closes a door for his family on over a year's worth of fighting--agonizing treatments, of dreams and failed hopes, and personal discovery for all of them. I doubt I can truly understand how any of them feel (though as a writer, I may try), and yet, maybe because I'm a writer, I find myself inspired as much as saddened by death and discussions of mortality.

Panthéisme

My friend and his family are very religious. I'm agnostic and a-theistic (spelling intentional)--even somewhat pantheistic--mostly unsure. Knowing how freely I create life and death, joy and sorrow in my writing, and seeing how most major religions attribute these same human skills to their chosen deities only encouraged the budding skeptic my father tried to create of me. The majority of recorded gods and goddesses are far too human in their behavior for my own comfort. And the idea that we humans are so similar because we were created in the image of these beings provides little more consolation. But I suspect I'm not the only one, even among skeptics and non-believers, who find themselves thinking about life more when someone we know dies.

Writers can seem to approach death in a very cavalier manner. In genre upon genre, what pulls the reader inside the bookjacket is body count, and what stops the reader turning pages is the author's well-crafted description of the sun shining through the skyscrapers (except for the bright few who paid attention the page before and knew that it couldn't be the sun because it was past noon, and that fiery glow could only be an asteroid crashing through the Earth's atmosphere, bringing with it devastation and more...death).


Kali in traditional pose

Writers are constantly creating and destroying worlds. We're gods (and goddesses) and murderers too. And we do it because we've been told to by those people that buy our work...which of course makes those readers gods over us (and the publishing houses who decide what is going to be available for those readers, gods over them...but I digress). There is even historic precedent for this. In the pantheons of some faiths, there are gods whose sole purpose is to record things for the pleasure of the lord of gods. One instance I can think of is the Armenian god called Tir (not to be confused with the Nordic God of the same name). I'm sure there are others.

The effect fiction can have on people is worth considering. Fans have spent years of their lives on a particular author's fancy, driving that passion far beyond the life it might have had were the author left to his or her devices. Be it the way Star Trek has made a few generations of young people into various incarnations of Sheldon Cooper and worse (just kidding, since I love Star Trek...TOS mostly, but I found Enterprise extremely enjoyable and even forgave Paramount for some of what they did to Babylon 5 with Deep Space Nine), authors make their thoughts into real creations for others to lives, breathe and experience.

In my last post, I touched on the topic of the multiple worlds of revisions--the worlds of "what if". Now I have a What If to consider.

What if we really did create worlds? What if each thought, digression and, creation of a person had the chance to create a whole new reality, populated by living creatures, sentient beings or all shapes and kinds? I'm not suggesting that all our random thoughts spin off into alternate realities, but (in the same manner that a string of yarn is not a piece of clothing, but can be made into one when given due attention and work) what if some do become real worlds with us as their creators?

The concept isn't that far from reality as some might think. Given that we could have functional AIs running about within a century or two and the propensity we already have for creating artificial worlds as witness by games such as Sim City... It's just a matter of some time. (Heck, it's just a matter of some time before we create cells that have a chance of mutating and evolving on their own from ordinary organic molecules.) Just give us another century or two and the whole human race will have earned the title of deity. It boggles my mind when I think of the moral implications of god-hood, and that's often just in my own fiction.

Like the song "Shapes in Shadow" sung by Heather Alexander (sorry, it's only available as far as I know in copies of the original Bayfilk cassettes), I "create worlds out or words alone", but that doesn't make them any less real. I know these characters (I've have people in Critters tell me that I was the more horrible person in the world for not paying more attention to certain characters even), I know their family members, their dreams, their fears, even why they didn't bother eating their whole breakfast this morning (except of course, 'Listii... he's like the anti-Mikey; "he'll eat anything"). And you know what I do regularly? I put these people, who, through no fault of their own, were "born" into my thoughts and my scribblings and torment them with impunity. It's not that I don't like my characters. I do. I love them (well, maybe not all of them...some are down-right obnoxious when I think about it). But, yeah, if it makes the story better, I'll have one's throat sliced on the battlefield (or the trysting nest) in a heartbeat. At least if it advances the story and "feels right".

How's that for morality?

In my defense, I prefer to write scenes where my characters have happy experiences. It might even be one of my draws to writing erotica, given how delightful physical pleasure can be so gratifying and euphoric. Even then, it's not all bunnies and light, as one can see from this piece of erotica, Returning Affections. If you haven't read it, please do, and let me know what you think. I'm always interested in feedback.

Quantum Writing (or How Schrödinger's Cat Ate My Manuscript)

2011-05-30T22:55:00.000-04:00

Some cats are real pissers

I'm quite fascinated by Quantum Mechanics--one might have guessed that given the name of my blogs here and here. So given that Monday is Blogging Day here is the wilds of the Helderbergs (we're not in "real" mountains, technically), a touch of serendipity seems to have been involved in having this article appear in my RSS feed this morning.

Now Sean Carroll does a far better job at introducing the specifics of why these two (very similar in my lay person's opinion) theories are possibly becoming united than I ever could; so I won't even bother to try. And it's not important for a discussion on writing. But it does serve to point out how very similar processes can serve in so many areas of life.

For me, it starts with a cat. If you don't know what Schrödinger's Cat is, please read the Wikipedia entry on the subject. It's by no means gospel, but it will serve.

Letting the cat out of the box

You (or I), the writer, are(am) outside the box at any given point in writing not knowing if the cat is alive or dead. For us, as we look at our blank screen or paper, the cat is both alive and dead at the same time. It's only when we decide to write (ie. open the box--we know what THAT did for Pandora) that chose which story arc we will be writing.

The concept of writing revisions and story lines as "alternate worlds" isn't a new one. There is at least one online community dedicated specifically to this idea. That's the grand scale. But closer to home, I find that I often find myself stuck with what can only be described as a Writer's Block of Plenty. It's not that I lack for story ideas. I have too many ideas, too many threads and pieces. It should seem like a cornucopia, but really it becomes a gag of indecision. Like most animal lovers, I don't want the cat to be dead. Neither do I wish to take a plot twist and follow it down a destructive path.

Now some might argue that I could inevitably bring the story around to where I want it, and yes, I could, except that each path taken opens up new possibilities, and discipline doesn't seem to be my biggest asset. There is a big joke in Reddit.land about how a person can open up the forum and stay awake all night going from one page to the next, and then the next ad infinitum. Shan calls this kind of "information gathering" (put in quotes because it often has not semblance as such until considered later) Cow Trails, based on the meandering paths that bovines seem to take when grazing. Never mind that cows have a definite focus and purpose in their grazing (yummy grass and flowers). The image seems to fit.

The closer you look, the more paths there are

This is what happened to The Swan Song series I have been working on. At first, it was simply a little piece of pre-history for Parvenu (which was a piece of pre-history that I based loosely on the Response Folders of our [Shan and I] days in high school). Out of pieces of those free form (basically vomit prose), endless ramblings of characterization and world building, I find tidbits to study, pieces that were needed to explain one character's behavior but take a life of their own under the microscope. These threads become stories of their own and take off, creating their own set of characters, scenes, history, and so on. (Indeed, I used to write my stories based along those lines, going back for any number of pages to a section that I found "fun" enough to recreate. I would rewrite and build a new piece wholly unrecognizable from the original.)

Artistically, the intricacies of writing fiction are easily related to quantum theory--especially what is known as Relational Quantum Mechanics. Take Point of View (as something I've been delving in with the Swan Song series) where each character acts in the story differently based on their own perceptions (and indeed, each character is a different character/person based on the perceptions of other characters). If I write the story from one character's POV over another, I end up writing a very different story than I would if I wrote the piece from the point of view of say that first character's mother or father.

But what about the needs of the story I envisioned? Don't I follow an outline? Dare I say that I am one of those writers that never plans anything? Truth is my outline is rough at best. For every story I have a few points I need to touch on and I allow myself to fill in from there. (As my husband notes, this is also a common method of software design [though this man would like to sell you some software based on the concept]--which by another serendipitous act showed up in my reddit list for the morning.)

Or to put it in other terms, certain things that must be done, and they must be done irregardless of personal preference . As with the original Cat, the choices aren't infinite--either a live cat or a dead cat will come out of the box. Live cat? I must feed and care for it until it is either a dead cat or I otherwise dispose of it. Dead cat? I dispose of the body. In fiction, one must have conflict, resolution, setting--the battle scenes, love interests, and all those pieces that we choose to write about. That moment, we make the choice to put words to medium, we choose not to write a story as much as we choose to write one. (Actually we choose not to write many stories. They aren't what we, at that Schrödinger's moment...that point where the cat can be presumed both dead AND alive because we are still just looking at the box... chose. Instead we are that single atomic particle that may either stay put leaving a miserable (but alive cat) in the box or break off tripping the Geiger counter and thus breaking the flask of poison. We are that particle, deciding the fate of of something far larger and more complex than we .)

But according to the Many Worlds theorists, both cats exist but in divergent space-time. And to extend that theory one step further, all those stories you didn't write were written by you (or rather by the persons you became). Makes you tired to think of it, doesn't it? Just think; somewhere/sometime you are probably a Nebula Award Winner. Of course, in another existence you never were.

Credit to: http://io9.com/5573351/

Sometimes I write those stories that I know will never make the cut. Or rather I try. I can't do it. I will always write from the "living cat" side of things. But whoever came out on the "dead cat" side is sitting at the same computer and typing this post... Did she stop and say "to heck with this; I have to make lunch for my son" or did she decide to go back and read the Wikipedia entry on Quantum Mechanics in further depth...did she decide to get off Wikipedia and look even more in depth, possibly sign up for a university course... (Ooh, does she have access already? Are we both members of some kind of wave in the space-time continuum that had reverted back to a single point in time, where she actually finished her degrees in college, is now working in a lab somewhere, but secretly still writing fiction? One must keep in mind that the Many Worlds Theory like all Quantum Theory is based on waves, with intersecting peaks and valleys. )

The possibilities seem staggering. Yet, when it affects my stories, I find the effect almost peaceful. It helps when to know there will always be new stories to write. It can be frustrating as well, but I don't mind when I have the luxury to consider them. (They make for some really fun speculative fiction, despite the violations of common sense and the limitations of the Anthropic Principle (weak version).)

The Chaos of a Quiet Evening

2011-05-16T19:04:00.000-04:00

It seems endless sometimes, but the journey is still worth it.

Today started out as normal as possible: the mad race to get out the door, the constant worry that the car would keep running, the friendly but disconnected chatter with the people at school, even the silly momentary puzzlement as I tried to decide where to go afterward: would I choose Starbuck's, Panera, the library, somewhere else completely--heck, did Mom want to meet?

Sometimes I feel like I am spinning in so many little directions I can never see the big turns in the road for what they are. Death by 1000 paper cuts is how my husband describes it (though I suspect he is not the first to use that phrase), and that is a perfect example of the situation: Here I am, sitting at a computer, connected to a broadband carrier that will allow me to use most any websearch service, but I won't look up that phrase to see who first coined it, mostly because I dare not get "off topic" anymore than I already am. (And truthfully, the quality of most websearches of late has been so mediocre, I'm not sure it would help anyway. Try to Google anything these days without having the first ten links involve some review company or marketing firm--I should know; I just tried looking up the address and phone number of the Monro Muffler Brake in East Greenbush and NEVER even got a link to Monro.com [the store is here, btw].)

I can finally see the sky

The majority of the day I spent on remote control or some semblance of it. I was able to compose some ideas for Courting the Swan Song during my bout with 750words (I almost made 2000 today, most of them story related, involving the Oath of Service members of the Royal Guard must make to their Andar and how it affects Alanii and 'Listii the first time Alanii takes himself a vassal). The ideas were flowing fast and furious actually, so much so that I was often afraid to slow down in my typing lest I risk passing by one. Though I did, often. I know that "first thoughts" are often flawed (at the very least they are often better when allowed to stew and become richer and more full of flavor).

This cornucopia was a product of my most favored form of writing...the day dreaming method (not really its name, just something I call it; I don't actually know if it even has a name). What this method involves is me staring at my computer screen, playing some mindless cardgame (it has to be a mindless card game, like solitaire--Vegas-style with cumulative scoring) and listening to music (usually something I know very well and am nearly numb to, Vangelis or Tomita both work very well) for often hours without interruption. Then I go to sleep, only to wake up the next morning bemoaning the fact that I can't just sit for hours and type everything that is spilling out of my dreams. On rare mornings I can sit, with either pen and paper or my laptop, and spew away, but often several hours pass before I reach a point where I can settle down and put the ideas into a more permanent form. Of course I forget some. I remember most however, and those that linger the longest I've found full or details and side considerations that launch me into paragraph upon paragraph of a scene. (In the words of those silly people at the Art of Manliness.. this is Invention!)

When things flow smoothly, it's beautiful.

It's a rare gift when I have a day like this lately; most of my computer time seems to be dedicated to "getting work done": paying bills, catching up on the back-log of articles and essays I get sent, or typing in second drafts of the many notebooks I have filled over the past many years (most of which will never see the light of day, but serve a different purpose now in inspiring me to new and better things), or showing my son the latest pictures of the planets or Linkin Park videos at his request. Time to just just and stare, to allow my subconscious to work its magic is so rare that I always approach it with the amazement that overtakes me when I see a butterfly....will it stay? how long can I enjoy its presence? WOW!

Scrivenings on Scrivener for Windows

2011-05-02T13:25:00.000-04:00

I'm a recent convert to this delightful little(!) program from the folks at Literature and Latte. Since I don't have a Mac (it's not a preference thing, it's an inertia one), I am happily risking my computer and story files to play with the most recent Beta test version (you do notice that they aren't brave enough to post that on their main page yet--sad, because even the Beta is quite good).

What I like the most about it is the way I can finally relieve my mind of the internal outlines I am always carrying around with me. Most of the outline styles I'd learned in school didn't work for me: I too often found myself obsessing over the outline and avoiding the writing. The apparent inflexibility of the two formats (and my conviction at the time that I needed to be able to write something and have it be "just right" the first time...I know now it can't be done) basically left me holding story after story in my head, making hundreds of little metal changes in the format for each variation that showed up. And heaven forbid that I throw something that didn't work away.... But that's an issue for another post.

However, as one can see by this picture, I have found my dream outlining setup and it's right on the screen with my research, the pictures I use as inspiration, the scenes I write and even the soundclips I've even used to help portray certain moods. I haven't fully explored all the possibilities of the program yet. Even after following the Tutorial included in the download, I know I am completely ignorant as to the full power of the program. But at the moment, it's what I need. And after my recent discovery that I would no longer be able to rely on my old WordPerfect 5.1/OneNote combo (my laptop comes to a standstill every time I open OneNote of late, which effectively makes the program useless) when I am switching between my two computers, I feel like this little revelation from NaNoWriMo last year has been given to me by some divine being [I've heard his name is Lee Powell].

Hey, no one said I couldn't dream.

So many things.....

2011-04-25T13:49:00.000-04:00

I'm breaking the "every other week" cycle I wrote about in my main blog on Wordpress to write this. Rest assured, I will be posting again next Monday as well, when I will hopefully have consolidated my observations on writing with Scrivener (as opposed to my former WordPerfect plodding) and how a change in technological format can both stifle and inspire new ways to express one's self.

The reason I'm posting this is sheer vanity: I was curious to see if this blog had ever made a blip into Google Search Land... As far as I can tell, it hasn't, but doing a search did reveal some interesting things. I have a lot of reading to do now. I may not be a blip on the world's RADAR, but I keep finding nifty stuff and that's enough to mae me happy.

One of the posts that interested me the most was this one on the New Buddhist website. So may things call me toward the Buddhist philosophy of late. I have friends who practice; I have been slowly working my way through some Zen writings; there is even a Buddhist Temple in my son's school. Clearly there is something that I am looking for in it, though at the moment I couldn't say what that something might be. I guess it is enough to know I am and to continue my search.

And so I am off. This time it is to edit some files that got mangled in the slew of crashes and computer reconstructions that came about from that Firefox worm as well as the annual holiday/family gathering chaos of winter.

Who Would Have Guessed

2010-07-15T12:50:00.000-04:00

My friend Dee posted an odd little link today on Facebook, and of course, I HAD to follow through. It's a Writing Style Analyzer. She seemed puzzled by the answer she got, and vapid curiosity on my part made me test the same confusing waters. And confusing they were, as I was never a huge fan of Shakespeare.

The text in question was the first page of Release:

    Chapter 1: News and Plans

   After a year of teaching me the Dance, Father announced that six must be a magical age and that I finally had learned how to carry a blade without tripping over my feet.
   The next morning, we headed for the stableyard. Sticky bits of a nut roll Grandmother had given me clung to my fingers. I clutched my firstsword to my side determined to not prove Father's misgivings of my skill and endeavored to clean myself. The icing defied all my attempts to lick it off. I stopped, laid the megassu on the ground, and raked my hands across my leggings vigorously.
   My father turned to see what held me up. Returning to my side, he heaved a sigh and spit on one of the crisp white linen folds he always carried. As he scrubbed my hands, he said "You will learn, Kieri, that the fleeting sweetness must be tempered lest it brings decay and rot. How many bites did that morsel make?
   "Twelve, sir. Ten?" Smaller was better when the Harnii Daryl used that tone.
   "Twelve then. You will rub the blade and hilt twelve extra strokes after practice. Then show your sword to me. One speck of dirt, and I will double that."
   I bowed my head, though the forewarned penance did nothing to dampen my mood. Of all Father's lessons, I loved to spar. He called it honing, but I knew it was battle. When I faced him in the salle, the world around me faded away and I Danced like the heroes from the stories Father told me nightly. Enemies of the Crown watched as I stood at our Andar's side, garbed in Guard black, and turned aside the advancing forces of the Alentriian witches. A challenge rang out to duel in my lord's honor, and I answered it, preserving his throne with my skill.
   This morning I intended to be my namesake, the great Kieri Rayestra. As he had, I would slay the advoutress, Tralanii Tiriis, and save my son and heir from her wiles. I'd been bubbling since last night when Father had reached down my firstsword from its place over the foyer arch, graced to me, he claimed, by our sovereign himself.

Release is the first story I ever "finished", and the one piece I have submitted to any commercial publisher. I've found from my critiques that readers either really loved the piece or really hated it. No one ever seemed to fall in the middle.

Since the site allows for someone to text another piece of writing, I decided to test a piece of fanfic I've been playing with, where I've been merging my story worlds with one of my inspirations: one of those 80's cheese cartoons Jayce and the Wheel Warriors.

    Herc, or whatever he was called here, sure had made himself at home. Jayce watched his friend during the man's social exchange with their escort. He liked seeing these people as more than the bloodthirsty fighters they'd witnessed in the battle or the ancient enemy of his mother's people. He just wished he was free to search for his father.
   He decided to broach the subject, since Herc wasn't. He cleared his throat before excusing himself into their conversation.
   The major's eyes were very dark, especially pinched with humor as they were. The man targeted him like a raptor. "Yes... Jayce?"
   He nodded. "Sorry to interrupt, but Herc, I mean Kieri here, says your people have a galactic reputation for genetics research."
   Their escort became thoughtful. "I wouldn't know about a galactic reputation. Our facilities are good, and we have some well regarded specialists. If you wish, we may be able to arrange a meeting with some of the mentors at the Academy for you. Do you attend a university?"
   "Actually, no. Genetics are a passion of my father's, and we're looking for him. We think he might be here."
   The major shook his head in a polite refusal. "As far as I know, we haven't had an inquiry of that kind recently."
   Of course they hadn't, he thought. It wasn't as if Audric could just go up and ask for access to their labs and equipment. He tried a different tactic. "I understand, but I know my father is here on your planet. I can't say how, I just do...."
   He expected to have to feign powers like Flora's to explain his knowledge. However, the major seemed to accept that without question. The man did stare at him for several seconds. Something tingled, just below the surface of his skin, like a tickle. It disappeared before it became truly irritating. By then the major had looked away, sucking at his cheeks.
   Whatever had happened, it got Herc's attention. His friend glowered at their escort. "I intend to report you for that, Major!"
   Jayce blinked. "What?"
   Vartanian Mattias turned an eye to his friend. "You have the right. Both of you." Those dark eyes met his gaze, and if he wasn't imagining it, then was an odd gentleness in the man's face, something that might have been trying to be welcoming and fond. "I'm sorry, Jayce. Milord Vestimorn is right. When we arrive at the Gate, you may demand restitution, if that is your wish."
   He shrugged. "Should I?" He glanced at Herc. His friend was seething, looking at the major in expression of utter disgust. He didn't get it.
   Clearly neither did Gillian. The wizard had been watching as well. His expression was puzzled. "I don't know, lad. Herc, what are you talking about?"
   "Why don't you explain it to them, sir?" his friend spat. "Daryl used to talk about you Hastor and what you might stoop to, but I doubt he would have expected that even from one of you."
   Whatever it was, it was an Acarian thing. Jayce sighed. "It's not important, Herc. I got uncomfortable when he stared at me. It's not like we haven't been doing our own share of staring."
   Herc shook his head. "It wasn't nothing, kid. He violated--"
   The major broke in. "I scanned you, Jayce. I tested your 'tianal channels and the paths they followed. It's not technically a crime," the man nodded to his friend, "but it is considered in very bad taste. I confess--I'd never heard of an offworld race that sensed filial calls the way ours does, and I was curious to see how your ability worked." Now the man sighed. "That doesn't excuse my actions. But it does change a few things."
   Jayce wondered what the man meant by that. Herc clearly didn't. Faster than he'd seen the man ever move, Herc had drawn his blaster. "Leave the boy alone. You want his mother, you go after her honestly."
   Their escort looked at his friend with a bemused smile. "Put that away before you hurt yourself. No one here is going to do anything to the boy. Or Atyriia Alantarii for that matter. That woman ticks me off on a daily basis, but I've no reason to hunt her at the moment."
   Herc lowered his gun ever so slowly. "If you say so."
   Jayce however couldn't relax as easily. Given the flippant way the Guardsman had suddenly come up with his mother's name, what else could these Acarians do? "What do you mean then by this changes a few things?"
   The major was saved a reply by the carriage's abrupt stop. The man disembarked and motioned for the rest of them to follow. "If you have time later and still want to know, I'll be happy to explain. For now, please follow me."

   The inn was simply a spaceport bar with extra tables. The air was as smoky and suffocating, though the food smelled better than most such places he'd seen offered. The floors and surroundings were spotless despite the sultry ambiance.
   Once his vision adjusted to the interior, he was able to make out a number of men--and women, he noted with some surprise--relaxing in cozy gatherings. The black uniform of the Acarian Guard adorned most patrons. Jayce looked around, trying to spot the Andar, though all he had to go on was that the man looked a lot like Herc. But he saw no one like that. Certainly no one stood out as a person of unusual importance.
   Why should the Acarian sovereign worry about a bodyguard in a bar full of his soldiers, he asked himself.
   Their escort led them to a secluded corner where two men sat in padded chairs. Both leaned over mugs of some kind of ale, talking. The shorter one glanced their way and gave the other some kind of signal. Then he saw the Andar turn and face them.
   The Acarian sovereign did look like Herc, but only in the loosest way. Both were tall men; both were strong and athletic, fighters each; both had long black hair. The Andar wore an eyepatch over his right eye. His left one was nearly as blue as Mother's had been, looking cold and unfriendly in the man's chiseled face. But Herc never had commanded this kind of presence. Jayce remembered his siblings' words about the man. He had no doubt of the authority and power the Andar wielded.
   Both their host and his companion, a frighteningly effective looking man with a stony expression and a serpentine grace, rose. Both men offered salutes to the escort and extended words of welcome to the rest of them. When the Andar turned to greet him, Jayce reached out to shake the man's hand. Their visit hadn't been a bad one so far. A bit bogged down in bureaucratic tangles, but so far the Acarians had been decent enough. Maybe he didn't speak for his mother's people, but someone had to offer a token of friendship....
   The Andar's gaze narrowed. The man's ease became a haughty distance. Jayce wasn't about to start a fight over it. He sighed amd dropped his hand. "I see I'm not the one to start making peace," he grumped.
   Herc heard him or had planned on speaking anyway. In a low whisper, the man said, "Don't take it personal, kid. Here you don't touch someone you've just met. Physical touch makes it hard to stop scans and the like. Plus offering your hand like that was inviting a more intimate encounter than I think you intended."
   "Oh..." His cheeks flamed. He forced himself to meet the Acarian sovereign's gaze. The man had to realize he'd just made a mistake.
   The Andar smiled, once again the model of ease. "It is no matter, young one. You aren't the first to make that error. I should have thought before assuming my son had told you our customs before he brought you here."
   He glanced sharply at Herc. Not that his friend noticed. Herc's jaw had fallen; he looked as if the planet had exploded around him.
   The Andar shrugged and reclaimed his seat. He motioned for them to sit as well, giving Herc a stern look. "It's been a long day already, Kieri. I have no intention of making it longer playing games. If you don't like it, you know where your ship is. We won't stop you--even if I probably should, given how you acquired it." The man picked up a pipe that had been smouldering in a cup, took a puff and let his breath out slowly. "You asked for this meeting however."
   Jayce could almost taste the bad blood between those two. He didn't blame Herc for the coldness that took over the man's expression. Or his friend's abrupt response. "It wasn't for my benefit, your highness." Herc dropped Lyarr's datacrystal on the table in front of his father. "I was asked to deliver this to you. Come on, kid, let's leave."
   He balked, looking at the crystal. "But--" He broke off, finally understanding what his friend had done--everything the man had done. With another look at the two men, he overlaid them with an image of his sister. He shook his head. "No," he whispered to no one in particular. Then he whirled on the Andar, "What did you do to my mother, you--"
   The Acarian sovereign's startlement barely registered before he felt Herc pull him back. "Calm down, kid. He didn't do anything to her that she didn't want."
   He twisted in the man's grasp, slamming his elbow in the man's rib. "Sure he didn't!" He pummeled the bastard a few more times. "Just like you didn't, you bastard!"

New result? I write like Neil Gaiman. Interestingly enough, this is my most natural state of writing. The piece here went through a spell checker, but little else. It is pretty damned raw.

Kind of neat!

=( I'm so disapointed =)

2010-07-08T09:33:00.000-04:00

It's my fault, of course, assuming I understood the working of another person's mind, when I still don't understand my own. But today was one of those eye-openers... When I realize that I cannot adequately explain what drives me to write and explore characters, particularly in writing my fan fiction. A fantasy of 25 years or so, my husband called it. I have to confess, that hurt, though I can understand the glimpse of truth he made that assumption on and the common fascinations that would lead him to see how a character I explored so blithely in response folders and later fanfics could be seen as a fantasy. If Kieri Vesimorn is a fantasy though, he is far too big for the label, and he doesn't want to be.

Today was an epiphany of another kind as well. The kind that can fix a ten-year old stagnation I've been working under with RELEASE. Independence is the needed ingredient, just as much for the story as it eventually is for the main character. Independence from the mass of other characters and their lives that have been brewing in my head all these many years. Kieri is his own person, and his story is not that of Acaria or his parents. I need to let him break away from all of their baggage so that he can become who he is meant to be, because otherwise, he cannot become the man I met when I first started writing about him.

So along with some much needed editing that I should have done a long time ago, I will be drawing some real lines in my stories for the first time in a long time. It won't happen in one day. But at least I do have a real sense of where I am going for the first time in too long.

So, again, my husband loves me!

My husband loves me

2010-07-07T16:54:00.001-04:00

He's my best man, the best man. I'm biased. But he really is wonderful.

Yesterday he posted this absolutely hilarious picture on my Facebook wall. I think I need a poster-sized copy to hang on the wall over my desk. The Green Man (not what mine looks like, but an incredible picture), as fond as I am of him, just doesn't tickle my funny bone in quite the same way.

Yet, I know that in the grand scheme of my typing and scribbling, that really, it's a momentary fling--the flash and smile, the lure of a fun aside that draws me. The same thrill overtakes me when I hear of a new word processing program or thesaurus. It never lasts. A month later or more and I'm back, staring dreamily at my favorite inspirations seeing things within them that I had never noticed or reminiscing fondly over others.

Here are some of the tried and true:

Painters: Salvador Dali (of course), Heironymus Bosch, Albert Beirstadt, Thomas Kinkade (I love his use of color), Maxfield Parrish... There are far too many others to list. I'm quite fond of the Hudson River School, since panoramas appeal to me the most. But the biggest delight in a painting to the ability to look at it over and over again and find something new in it.

Ruins: It really doesn't seem to matter what the ruins are of, whether an old farm house or an ancient city, an abandoned factory... Places like these hold stories. I'm a HUGE fan of Urban Exploration (although I am a rank amateur at it). Most of my stories involve a certain level of "rediscovery". I'm a firm believer in the idea that the past was filled with ideas and creative invention that put the achievements of our modern times to pale. And at times, something shows up to suggest that I may be right.

Activities: Reading, walking, hiking, .... people-watching! The last is vital and must be done in so many different places. As much as I love hanging out and writing (and people watching) in Panera, it' not the best place to take in a wide variety of human activities and behaviors.

A good reference library: March's Thesaurus-Dictionary (I have two versions, an original 1926 printing and a reprint I bought in the '90's...both are priceless, in my opinion), at least one CRC (mine needs updating, if only because I don't have that much tape), an adequate dictionary (an online one will do, but I tend to do a lot of pen and paper writing, so I like my well-taped ex-library copy of Webster's), Kiss, Bow, or Shake Hands, and one of Emily Post's Etiquette guides are all standards here.

I could go on, but if I do, I'm not doing the writing I need to get done. So I'll list one last place for inspiration... myself. I couldn't do it alone.

So many issues

2010-07-04T08:25:00.000-04:00

Yesterday while I was in Panera working on the setup of this page and my other blog (blogs, actually, since there is a not quite mirror of this one there) at Wordpress.com, I started thinking about the many facets of the writing process. To name a few, there are:

creative or free-writing
editing
researching
editing again
stewing
ditching it all
starting over again

Okay, so No.6 really isn't necessarily a step in the process. And there really should be a second "researching" step as well as at least one more editing or rewriting step in the list. But the point is that writing is seldom as simple as jotting down thoughts and sharing them with the world. (Even if that is what most people, including me, do.)

But there are also the deeper things about writing. Thing like the way writing can alter one. Writing a good piece of erotica can stimulate one's libido. Writing scenes of death and futility can have me in a funk for days. And happy endings just inspire me to keep writing well past the end of the story, because I'm so in love with the piece in question, I don't want that end to happen.

Then there is the research aspect. Take for example this piece about Feminism and Pornography that my husband sent me to look at. For a long time my attitude toward porn had been shifting with the tides, mostly depending on the type qnd quality of the product involved. But in reading this piece (really three smaller pieces one after another), I was tossed back and forth emotionally. Really, there seems to be no decent place to land on in this issue. I see the good, the bad, the ugly... And of course, there are many points on the continuum that could be explored. I'm always left with the same problem. It's not the object, it's how we use it. Is the knife a kitchen tool or a weapon of violence? Decide for yourself. Here are a few links to get you started:

Have a great day!

Sun sets...

2010-06-29T21:29:00.000-04:00

...on another topic. I don't know if it was the right direction to follow, but here I am anyway. The characters all have their own ideas, very few of them matching the reality of the news and opinion pages, but then theirs is a different sort of place. The expectations for their lives, the traditions and rituals they follow are not the ones I was brought up with, and I cannot say I would like it if they had been. Most of them seem horrific to my nearly WASP birthright.

I've heard said that the words one uses, the placement of these words and the symbols that accentuate and define them, become a kind of fingerprint.

What does mine look like I wonder, swirling, breaking, cracking, flipping...the bird that flies through cloudless skies, soaring majestic and alone after it shat on your windshield....

Someday I will really start this blog the way I should. Not tonight.