Yep, I'm still here and still plugging away! Now that the holidays are over I'm redoubling my effort to whip my WIPs into shape. I'm especially excited about my newest novel that provides a horrific explanation for the disappearance of the Roanoke colony that landed on Roanoke Island in 1587. Cannibalism, the Wendigo, an old-fashioned Puritan witch hunt, and a forbidden romance are all being plotted and waiting to be put to page. I anticipate a spooky good time. I also wanted to share some nifty software I ran across the other day. It is called Character Writer 3.1. I like it because it is simple (at least I think so--not any useless bells and whistles I'll never use) and has a great interface for creating and organizing characters.
I'd also like to take a moment and plug local author and friend Brad Turner's book on Central Texas legends titled Cotton Bales, Goatmen & Witches. If you love true stories of things that go bump in the night, I encourage you to pick up this coffee table book chock full of cool Texas legends and beautiful photographs.
As for what I'm reading as of late, I most recently put down The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and haven't been able to pick it up again. I've made it through about two-thirds of the book and still don't see what all the hooplah is about. I will say it is well written and Lizbet is a fascinating character, but that's about all I can say that I like about it. Overall, I just find it well, kinda snoozy. Apologies to the gazillions of fans out there that will never read my blog opinion anyway. :-)
That about catches things up!
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Monday, December 12, 2011
A snippet from my current Christmas short story
Every year on Christmas morning all of us sisters would wake up hours before momma and poppa—hours before the sun even because we wanted to see what Santa left under the tree. This year as we all tumbled out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs, we felt a sudden chilly breeze come up to greet us. It carried on it a scent of gingerbread, egg-nog, and Christmas goose gone bad. Now, all of us were too excited to be concerned about this until we saw the Christmas tree. The draft was so strong it was causing the ornaments on the tree to shake and clink. Eva immediately got a huge smile on her face and ran all the faster down the stairs. “Santa! Santa is putting presents under the tree! That is why it’s shaking!” she loudly whispered as she turned back to tell the rest of us.
Of course, how silly and sleepy-drunk the rest of us had been not to realize that Eva was right. Santa was right there in our house! This was almost too much excitement to bear. Then within a few seconds time we found out that our assumptions were very, very wrong. Someone was indeed behind the tree, but Santa he was not. Eva stopped short when she saw the hooves—so did the rest of us. At first I thought well maybe Santa had brought one of his reindeer in to help him out. Silly idea I know, but when faced with preposterous situations, silly ideas flourish.” At this Beulah stretched over with a creak and a few pops and set her pie plate on the hearth.
“Hooves? Santa doesn’t have hooves Auntie! How silly!” Cousin Betty this time with, as usual, her finger stuck at least an inch up her puggy nose and her mouth agape and ready to receive what she was busy retrieving. Betty was disgusting—even by kid standards.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Merry Christmas To Me!
I came home from an education conference to see that my Frightmares fiction anthology had arrived! My story, Motherhood, is on page 37. The anthology has a lot of other great stories too all for about $15 on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Frightmares-Fistful-Flash-Fiction-Horror/dp/0983433550/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1323385591&sr=8-1
Yay!
Yay!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Plugging Along
Ok, I know its been awhile since I've updated my blog when I have to stop and try to remember what the password is! Perhaps if I updated more often I would have more than 7 followers--but I digress. Over the past few months I've actually been fairly productive when it comes to my writing. As I mentioned in my previous post I've had a flash fiction piece accepted for publication in Dark Moon Digest's upcoming Frightmares horror anthology. I've been told that the hard copy of the anthology will be out sometime in December.
And while my first novel, The Van de Graaff Experiment, was turned down by Penguin, the editor had some very positive things to say about it--namely that my writing is good enough to run with the big dogs--or in his words, "to carry a novel". He just wasn't crazy about the plot--but even there said that someone else might be. So even though he didn't accept my manuscript, he still provided all the encouragement I needed to keep, as my title says, plugging along. The manuscript has also caught the eye of an agent at The Trident Group which I'm thrilled about. She requested the entire manuscript and has had it in her hot little hands for about a month now. Here is where I can use a little feedback from more experienced authors out there. How long is the appropriate wait time before I check in with her? I'm using the rule of thumb of 90 days when I'm submitting directly to publishers. Does this hold true for agents as well? I also sent the manuscript off to TOR about a month ago but don't expect to hear back from them for quite awhile. Yes, I'm thinking positive here and expecting to hear back.
One of my earlier short stories, The Devil and Jasper Jenkins, is also in review at several small presses. Here I have to give yet another plug for Duotrope's Digest. Talk about a great place to search for small presses that allow simultaneous submissions. As of yet, no one seems interested in The Devil and Jasper, but I'm still hopeful.
And while I'm waiting, I've been outlining the plot of my next novel that has yet to be named. It is the one about the church full of less that holy parishioners who end up being tormented in very Dante-esque ways for indulging in the seven deadly sins. Currently, the plot seems very unwieldy. There are so many character and sub-plot possibilities it is becoming hard to manage. I think I need to simplify, simplify, simplify...but how? That is the question.
And finally, this holiday season has put me in the mood to write a holiday short story. For awhile now I've been fascinated by Krampus--the nasty demon who does Santa's dirty work when it comes to naughty children. We don't see much of him here in the states, but the Europeans love (and fear) him. Personally, I think he's just begging to have a horror story written about him so below I've posted the start of mine. As always, feedback is much welcome!! Ok, I have now officially updated my blog. Hope everyone is having a great holiday season thus far!
“Beware the Krampus my babbies!! Bewaaarrreeee!!!” Boomed Auntie Beulah as she waved her fork-skewered piece of turkey in the air with a flourish. The crash from her chair tipping back and clattering to the floor as she jumped to her feet caught the attention of those at the grown up table. Eyes rolled. Batty Aunt Beulah. It was outbursts like this that eventually banished her to the kid’s table in the corner every Thanksgiving. Not that the kids minded. They picked at their peas while kicking each other under the table and snickered. All of the cousins looked forward to Auntie Beulah’s crazy outbursts. This year she kept going on about something called a Krampus. Last year she said she couldn’t eat dinner because there was a tree growing in her throat. The year before that she was convinced that tiny robotic cats lived in her bathtub drain. It was why she was so tired after eating. The high pitched yowling of the cats kept her awake the night before. The adults were not amused.
“Beulah, sit down. You’re scaring the children.” Sensible Auntie Willow. The oldest of the Sneeva sisters. The kids were convinced she was at least 150 years old. And although they didn’t say it out loud, the adults were convinced too. To everyone at both tables she’d always looked ancient and unchanging, a bit like those neglected dusty displays of cavemen and mammoths at the museum. Her silver-white hair was always pulled straight up from the nape of her turkey-buzzard neck into a tiny braided knot that perched on the top of her round, wobbly head. Today the bright red lipstick she always wore was smudged at the corners of her lips making her look a bit like a deranged stuffing-eating clown. This made the children laugh and kick even harder. The laser-sharp icy gaze she was leveling at the corner where the chaos began was lost both on the children and on Beulah.
“What’s a Krampus Auntie?” Asked eight year old Olive Nell momentarily ceasing construction work on the mashed potato canals she’d been creating on her plate.
“Beulah! Please! Sit down. And don’t encourage your aunt’s disruptive behavior Olive. Finish your peas and potatoes so you may be excused.” Auntie Willow again. This time pointing a single boney-clawed finger in Beulah’s direction to emphasize her point.
Not missing a beat, Beulah, as a wisp of sanity crept into her eyes, daintily placed her fork on her plate, turned to her sister and said, “It is impolite to point Willow.” She then picked up her chair, mumbled something about sugar plums, sat down and stared at each of her young table mates in turn. “Beeewaaare the Krampus!” She whispered to each with theatrical yet honest urgency. “Be sure your naughty deeds will find you out!”
Again, Olive Nell started to ask, “but what is a Kram—“
“Pie! Pie! PIE!!! Willow, where is the pie?” Shouted Beulah as she grabbed her third dinner roll out of the bread basket and furiously stabbed at the butter plate with her spoon. The other aunties wouldn’t let her have a knife—even a butter knife.
“Beulah, you know we all eat pie in front of the fireplace in the parlor an hour or so after dinner and dinner isn’t even over yet.” Auntie Vena this time. A retired government worker who always wore an ill-fitting wig and smelled of lilacs. She liked things to be orderly and go according to plan. Protocol. She used that word a lot.
Eva, a round little pumpkin of a woman sitting across the table, nodded her consent. She was the youngest of the sisters and the children had never heard her speak. Despite Olive’s and the other cousins’ questions on the matter, all they were told was that she had an accident when she was a young girl that rendered her speechless.
There were four sisters in all—Beulah, Willow, Eva, and Vena. All had outlived their husbands long ago and all had lived together in the same house for 20 years. Each year they put on a Thanksgiving feast for the rest of the family that, thanks to Vena, had a menu that never waivered—turkey (always a bit dry), stuffing (always somewhat mushy), peas, potatoes, gravy (always a tad lumpy), dinner rolls (always a bit hard), and pumpkin pie (always the best part of the meal).
Beulah’s outburst about the pie motivated her company at the kid’s table to finish their dinner so that they could move on to dessert. In the parlor (of course). By the fire (of course). In about an hour (sigh). Then, almost as if they were of one mind, all of the children finished their dinner at the exact same time. The last bit of roll eaten, the last pea popped in the mouth, the last bite of potatoes and gravy sopped up—all at precisely the same moment. This was more than just odd. Something was afoot. Olive, being an extra precocious child, knew it. The air in the room had changed. An almost imperceptible chill had crept in, wound its way around her feet and brought with it a scent of pine boughs, peppermints and something else—something Olive couldn’t quite place. It made her think of thunderstorms and nightmares. Stealing a quick and somewhat fearful glance to her left, she watched as Auntie Beulah gave her a quick wink and nodded towards the doorway. Taking that as a sign, Olive and the rest of the cousins quickly asked to be excused from the table and headed straight into the parlor. Aunt Beulah was right behind but not before taking a quick detour to the pumpkin pie. Hastily grabbing a plate she picked up a nearby serving spoon, scooped out the very middle of the pie, took the canned squirty whipped cream out of the refrigerator and created a snow-capped pumpkin mountain on her plate. Then with a satisfied smile she made her way into the parlor knowing full well the rest of the adults wouldn’t be in to join them for at least another hour.
All of the children settled themselves next to the fireplace and watched as Beulah walked into the room carrying her pie-peak and plop herself down in a nearby over-stuffed chair. “Hey! No fair! You got pie before the rest of us!” Cousin Jesse. The whiner. The tattletale. Of course he would be the one to spoil things before Olive and the others were able to find out what a Krampus was.
However before he was able to work himself into a raucously indignant rant (he was famous for these) that would surely alert the adults, Beulah popped him on the side of the head with the pie and whipped cream covered serving spoon. “There’s your pie! Now shut your own pie hole you little gremlin or I will take you home and feed you to my tortoise Russell a piece at a time!” Responded Beulah as she wiggled her wide bottom further back into the recliner and deftly swiped the peak off pie mountain and shoveled it into her mouth.
Both smarting from the smack and knowing that Auntie Beulah was just crazy enough to make good on her promise, Jesse quieted down and for the third time that afternoon Olive asked, “Auntie, what is a Krampus?” Again, she felt that odd chill begin to swirl into the room causing the fire to flicker and her stocking covered toes to tingle. And again, all of the children (even Jesse) as if of one mind, looked up at Auntie Beulah in anticipation of her answer.
After taking another generous bite of pie and brushing the crumbs off her blouse, Auntie Beulah took a deep breath, leaned forward and began her story.
“It all begins with Auntie Eva....
And while my first novel, The Van de Graaff Experiment, was turned down by Penguin, the editor had some very positive things to say about it--namely that my writing is good enough to run with the big dogs--or in his words, "to carry a novel". He just wasn't crazy about the plot--but even there said that someone else might be. So even though he didn't accept my manuscript, he still provided all the encouragement I needed to keep, as my title says, plugging along. The manuscript has also caught the eye of an agent at The Trident Group which I'm thrilled about. She requested the entire manuscript and has had it in her hot little hands for about a month now. Here is where I can use a little feedback from more experienced authors out there. How long is the appropriate wait time before I check in with her? I'm using the rule of thumb of 90 days when I'm submitting directly to publishers. Does this hold true for agents as well? I also sent the manuscript off to TOR about a month ago but don't expect to hear back from them for quite awhile. Yes, I'm thinking positive here and expecting to hear back.
One of my earlier short stories, The Devil and Jasper Jenkins, is also in review at several small presses. Here I have to give yet another plug for Duotrope's Digest. Talk about a great place to search for small presses that allow simultaneous submissions. As of yet, no one seems interested in The Devil and Jasper, but I'm still hopeful.
And while I'm waiting, I've been outlining the plot of my next novel that has yet to be named. It is the one about the church full of less that holy parishioners who end up being tormented in very Dante-esque ways for indulging in the seven deadly sins. Currently, the plot seems very unwieldy. There are so many character and sub-plot possibilities it is becoming hard to manage. I think I need to simplify, simplify, simplify...but how? That is the question.
And finally, this holiday season has put me in the mood to write a holiday short story. For awhile now I've been fascinated by Krampus--the nasty demon who does Santa's dirty work when it comes to naughty children. We don't see much of him here in the states, but the Europeans love (and fear) him. Personally, I think he's just begging to have a horror story written about him so below I've posted the start of mine. As always, feedback is much welcome!! Ok, I have now officially updated my blog. Hope everyone is having a great holiday season thus far!
“Beware the Krampus my babbies!! Bewaaarrreeee!!!” Boomed Auntie Beulah as she waved her fork-skewered piece of turkey in the air with a flourish. The crash from her chair tipping back and clattering to the floor as she jumped to her feet caught the attention of those at the grown up table. Eyes rolled. Batty Aunt Beulah. It was outbursts like this that eventually banished her to the kid’s table in the corner every Thanksgiving. Not that the kids minded. They picked at their peas while kicking each other under the table and snickered. All of the cousins looked forward to Auntie Beulah’s crazy outbursts. This year she kept going on about something called a Krampus. Last year she said she couldn’t eat dinner because there was a tree growing in her throat. The year before that she was convinced that tiny robotic cats lived in her bathtub drain. It was why she was so tired after eating. The high pitched yowling of the cats kept her awake the night before. The adults were not amused.
“Beulah, sit down. You’re scaring the children.” Sensible Auntie Willow. The oldest of the Sneeva sisters. The kids were convinced she was at least 150 years old. And although they didn’t say it out loud, the adults were convinced too. To everyone at both tables she’d always looked ancient and unchanging, a bit like those neglected dusty displays of cavemen and mammoths at the museum. Her silver-white hair was always pulled straight up from the nape of her turkey-buzzard neck into a tiny braided knot that perched on the top of her round, wobbly head. Today the bright red lipstick she always wore was smudged at the corners of her lips making her look a bit like a deranged stuffing-eating clown. This made the children laugh and kick even harder. The laser-sharp icy gaze she was leveling at the corner where the chaos began was lost both on the children and on Beulah.
“What’s a Krampus Auntie?” Asked eight year old Olive Nell momentarily ceasing construction work on the mashed potato canals she’d been creating on her plate.
“Beulah! Please! Sit down. And don’t encourage your aunt’s disruptive behavior Olive. Finish your peas and potatoes so you may be excused.” Auntie Willow again. This time pointing a single boney-clawed finger in Beulah’s direction to emphasize her point.
Not missing a beat, Beulah, as a wisp of sanity crept into her eyes, daintily placed her fork on her plate, turned to her sister and said, “It is impolite to point Willow.” She then picked up her chair, mumbled something about sugar plums, sat down and stared at each of her young table mates in turn. “Beeewaaare the Krampus!” She whispered to each with theatrical yet honest urgency. “Be sure your naughty deeds will find you out!”
Again, Olive Nell started to ask, “but what is a Kram—“
“Pie! Pie! PIE!!! Willow, where is the pie?” Shouted Beulah as she grabbed her third dinner roll out of the bread basket and furiously stabbed at the butter plate with her spoon. The other aunties wouldn’t let her have a knife—even a butter knife.
“Beulah, you know we all eat pie in front of the fireplace in the parlor an hour or so after dinner and dinner isn’t even over yet.” Auntie Vena this time. A retired government worker who always wore an ill-fitting wig and smelled of lilacs. She liked things to be orderly and go according to plan. Protocol. She used that word a lot.
Eva, a round little pumpkin of a woman sitting across the table, nodded her consent. She was the youngest of the sisters and the children had never heard her speak. Despite Olive’s and the other cousins’ questions on the matter, all they were told was that she had an accident when she was a young girl that rendered her speechless.
There were four sisters in all—Beulah, Willow, Eva, and Vena. All had outlived their husbands long ago and all had lived together in the same house for 20 years. Each year they put on a Thanksgiving feast for the rest of the family that, thanks to Vena, had a menu that never waivered—turkey (always a bit dry), stuffing (always somewhat mushy), peas, potatoes, gravy (always a tad lumpy), dinner rolls (always a bit hard), and pumpkin pie (always the best part of the meal).
Beulah’s outburst about the pie motivated her company at the kid’s table to finish their dinner so that they could move on to dessert. In the parlor (of course). By the fire (of course). In about an hour (sigh). Then, almost as if they were of one mind, all of the children finished their dinner at the exact same time. The last bit of roll eaten, the last pea popped in the mouth, the last bite of potatoes and gravy sopped up—all at precisely the same moment. This was more than just odd. Something was afoot. Olive, being an extra precocious child, knew it. The air in the room had changed. An almost imperceptible chill had crept in, wound its way around her feet and brought with it a scent of pine boughs, peppermints and something else—something Olive couldn’t quite place. It made her think of thunderstorms and nightmares. Stealing a quick and somewhat fearful glance to her left, she watched as Auntie Beulah gave her a quick wink and nodded towards the doorway. Taking that as a sign, Olive and the rest of the cousins quickly asked to be excused from the table and headed straight into the parlor. Aunt Beulah was right behind but not before taking a quick detour to the pumpkin pie. Hastily grabbing a plate she picked up a nearby serving spoon, scooped out the very middle of the pie, took the canned squirty whipped cream out of the refrigerator and created a snow-capped pumpkin mountain on her plate. Then with a satisfied smile she made her way into the parlor knowing full well the rest of the adults wouldn’t be in to join them for at least another hour.
All of the children settled themselves next to the fireplace and watched as Beulah walked into the room carrying her pie-peak and plop herself down in a nearby over-stuffed chair. “Hey! No fair! You got pie before the rest of us!” Cousin Jesse. The whiner. The tattletale. Of course he would be the one to spoil things before Olive and the others were able to find out what a Krampus was.
However before he was able to work himself into a raucously indignant rant (he was famous for these) that would surely alert the adults, Beulah popped him on the side of the head with the pie and whipped cream covered serving spoon. “There’s your pie! Now shut your own pie hole you little gremlin or I will take you home and feed you to my tortoise Russell a piece at a time!” Responded Beulah as she wiggled her wide bottom further back into the recliner and deftly swiped the peak off pie mountain and shoveled it into her mouth.
Both smarting from the smack and knowing that Auntie Beulah was just crazy enough to make good on her promise, Jesse quieted down and for the third time that afternoon Olive asked, “Auntie, what is a Krampus?” Again, she felt that odd chill begin to swirl into the room causing the fire to flicker and her stocking covered toes to tingle. And again, all of the children (even Jesse) as if of one mind, looked up at Auntie Beulah in anticipation of her answer.
After taking another generous bite of pie and brushing the crumbs off her blouse, Auntie Beulah took a deep breath, leaned forward and began her story.
“It all begins with Auntie Eva....
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Doin' a Happy Dance
Woot!! Just had my flash fiction piece, Motherhood accepted for Dark Moon Digest's upcoming Frightmares fiction anthology!!! Dark Moon Digest
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Couldn't have said it better myself
I've been disappointed for years now with the selection of horror movies hitting the theaters. Everything seems to be a re-hashed, warmed-over leftover from another decade. Final Destination 5? Really? 5? What is it with Hollywood and poorly made sequels? I have to go back 12 years to The Sixth Sense to find something truly original and downright spooky. All to say I don't believe this is necessarily a bad thing. The genre is ripe for something new--something that is going to blow moviegoers socks off. I'm convinced that sooner or later (hopefully sooner) there will be a movie that does for horror fans what Star Wars did for sci-fi fans. And for that, I can hardly wait.
HORROR FILMS HIT DEAD ZONE AT SUMMER BOX OFFICE
http://news.yahoo.com/horror-films-hit-dead-zone-summer-box-office-154307442.html;_ylt=AmTAwMQQ80vg.uAv_cVTKlNxFb8C;_ylu=X3oDMTNmMXE3NG5mBG1pdAMEcGtnAzM4OTE2MTQ0LTgyM2YtM2MxNy1iMzFiLTMzN2FjODYwNmQ2MQRwb3MDMTUEc2VjA2xuX01vdmllc19nYWwEdmVyAzQxMjZiZWEwLWQzMWYtMTFlMC1iZWY2LWRhNjI1YWE0YTJhYg--;_ylv=3
HORROR FILMS HIT DEAD ZONE AT SUMMER BOX OFFICE
http://news.yahoo.com/horror-films-hit-dead-zone-summer-box-office-154307442.html;_ylt=AmTAwMQQ80vg.uAv_cVTKlNxFb8C;_ylu=X3oDMTNmMXE3NG5mBG1pdAMEcGtnAzM4OTE2MTQ0LTgyM2YtM2MxNy1iMzFiLTMzN2FjODYwNmQ2MQRwb3MDMTUEc2VjA2xuX01vdmllc19nYWwEdmVyAzQxMjZiZWEwLWQzMWYtMTFlMC1iZWY2LWRhNjI1YWE0YTJhYg--;_ylv=3
Friday, August 19, 2011
Yet More Great Advice
Below is a link to an article titled "How to Write Faster". What I appreciated most about it was that it validated the fact that writing is an extremely taxing cognitive enterprise--in other words, it's darn hard work. Also, during my grad studies I learned a lot about the creative process--especially that it can take years for someone to master something and in turn create a masterpiece. Most artists, writers, musicians, etc. must hone their craft over time. Yes, there are those few prodigies out there, but they are very rare. All to say, the article validates these ideas as well. All in all, good stuff!
http://www.slate.com/id/2301243/pagenum/all/
http://www.slate.com/id/2301243/pagenum/all/
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