DragonCon 2011 Revisited

21 days to DragonCon 2012...

Illuminati coat

On Tuesday, I found out the iPhone app for this year's DragonCon had been released, and if I wasn't already excited, I was now bouncing through the house.  Well...Sarah's house to be accurate as we were beginning work on my Illuminati costume.  And really to be totally accurate, she did all the work.  Sarah, have I told you lately that I love you?

Last year was the first year I had attended DragonCon.  I had wanted to go for years, but when I finally had the money to attend, I was teaching.  Administration frowned on my taking off a week just after the start of school.  My husband and I went with two of our best friends - seamstress extraordinaire and all around bad ass person, Sarah, and my own personal content hole poker, Jason (see Poking Holes where I sing praises of his rad skills: http://perchingonabarstool.blogspot.com/2011/10/0-false-18-pt-18-pt-0-0-false-false.html).  We had a freakin' blast.  It not only met my expectations, but also blew them out of the water.  As Sarah so eloquently put it, "DragonCon is Mardi Gras if it rolled a D20." 

I will never miss another DragonCon. Ever.  The vibe there is incredible, like nothing I have ever experienced.  The count down to this year's event has made me nostalgic for last year's hijinks.  I didn't have a blog to reflect our journey to Atlanta and back, but this year I do.  So for posterity sake, here are a few highlights from 2011.

The highlight of the con: meeting Laurell K. Hamilton! Aside from being one of my favorite authors, my book never would have been finished if it weren't for her advice.  Years ago, she posted several blogs about the writing process.  One of the blogs talked about getting words on a page.  I remember her saying to set a goal, even as low as two pages a day, and committing.  I did just that (and 99% of the time surpassed that 2 page goal by 4 or more pages).  I can't thank her enough.  I think I tried that night, but I was stuck in fangirl squee!

Sarah and I getting our steampunk on!  

Dice ready!  Let the gaming commence...

Jason after winning a Magic tourney

My husband in the gaming room enjoying a good sit.

Another cool moment: Attending Jennie Breeden's Kilt Blowing event and getting to meet her again!
Every morning, I check my email, check social media, and read the Devil's Panties (http://thedevilspanties.com/  ).  I got to meet her at Comicpalooza a few months before this event.  I had no clue she would even be at the con, and when I rounded the corner and saw a giant Devil's Panties sign, I freaked!  Very exciting!

What will this year's DragonCon bring? I can't wait to find out.  

Check out Sarah's blog chronicling her costuming countdown to DragonCon 2012 here: http://sablearts.com/

Next Decade, Next Project

The past couple of weeks have been quite frantic.  I vowed to write a blog a week, and already I am failing miserably at my task.  Poo.  Here is a brief update on my insanity.

I have finished all my cuts and edits on my Urban Fantasy.  Yay!  Let there be much rejoicing.  My manuscript is now being reviewed by two lovely grammar Nazis since I can no longer see my mistakes. My query is done.  Every week I am reviewing it and making sure there isn't another way to tweak it.  I've written the one, two, and five page synopses.  Again, I am waiting a week to review and tweak.  That way, once my line edits are done, I will be ready to query agents.

In the meantime, I have started on my new WIP - Ginny, a western steampunk w/romantic elements.  Chapter one has been written.  I then did something I didn't do with my first novel.  I sat down and wrote a chapter synopsis for the ENTIRE book.  I figure this may change while I write, but unlike my first book where I only had vague ideas of where I was going and was constantly revisiting my timeline and changing things, I have a very clear picture of everything.  And that is an awesome feeling.

But before I go diving in, I have one more very important job - creating an alternate timeline.  This will actually be quite fun.  I already have a great reference book The Timetables of History which will help me create the "real" historical timeline.  Then I will rewrite that with my own twists and turns, including historical events, scientific discoveries and inventions, etc.  I think this will actually be quite fun.  Once I have the timetables done, I am going to write the historical reference text.  Most of this information will just be for me, but it will help my world building immensely.

Oh, what's with the title? I turned forty yesterday.  In January, I wrote Marking Time (http://perchingonabarstool.blogspot.com/2012/01/marking-time.html) and wrote, "In ten years, I will reflect on my forties and say, 'That is the decade I became a published author and had my first best-seller.'"  It seems I am on my way to making my dreams come true.  Everyone asked if I was freaking out about turning forty.  Honestly, I have never been happier.  I finally know exactly who I am and what I want to do.  I wouldn't trade that for any age.

Lastly, a shout out to my husband who is an absolute sweetheart, not only for putting up with me yelling at him to hush while I write, but also for taking me out for a surprise night on the town for my birthday.  He took me on a "stroll down memory lane" to places that have meant something to us, like the Richmond Arms and Brewery Tap, where we had our first date.

My big night out!  First stop at the Richmond Arms!

Ginny

Over a year ago, I woke up from a vivid dream.  A new disturbing world was handed to me complete with a kick-ass heroine.  I wrote a voice piece from her perspective and Ginny was born.  Unlike the novel I was writing at the time, this series would focus on a single heroine and would be written solely from her view of the world.  But I couldn't focus on Ginny then.  I had to file her away for another day.

Now, I'm in the final edits of my urban fantasy, and Ginny has started knocking on my door again.  She is ready.  In fact, she is screaming that her time has come.  Although I hadn't written a word about her since that fateful morning, she woke me from sleep, I have thought a lot about Ginny and her world.  And in all that thinking, her story has come packaged and delivered.

Last night, I started writing in my head.  The words wouldn't stop, and her narrative just about drove me to madness until I told my husband the kid's bedtime was in his capable hands and fled to the bedroom, locking the door, my laptop in hand.  She poured outta me and on to the page, and it felt so damn good.  She even woke me up at 5:30 am... tap...tap...tapping.  Ginny is not a patient woman.  


The time has come to balance my work.  Until I start querying, I will focus on final edits of my urban fantasy. My query and synopsises are done.  YAY!  That way, I can carve a bit of time each day to appease Ginny.

For those curious about the genre, Ginny's story will be a western steampunk novel.

A Writer's Stride

For years I had dismissed running, mostly I’ll admit now, because I’m lazy.   Who wants to run when you can sleep an extra hour? I made a lot of excuses.  I can’t find a good sports bra.  I have bad knees.  I don’t have time.  Then, in October, my husband ran his first 5k.  Watching him, a man whose favorite exercise was walking to the fridge to get a beer and back to the computer for another match, complete his first 5k was pretty damn inspiring.  As he crossed the finish line, I vowed the next time, I would be by his side.

So, I started running.  Now I love it.  I couldn’t imagine my life without it.  Especially because of my writing.  There is something magical that happens on a run.  My mind unknots, and my muse is allowed to play.  Working the body is as important as working the mind.  At least for me it is.  After a run, I come to the computer refreshed with plot issues resolved.

This summer, however, is kicking my ass.  Texas heat is NOT something you willingly run in.  At least, I don’t.  If I’m not up and out by six A.M., forget it.  I have tried to run on the treadmill.  I hate it.  I can run two and a half miles with ease on the road, but in the gym, I peter out at a mile.  No amount of creative visualization helps. 

Yet, runners are still everywhere.  And aside from the occasional hot-bodied shirtless runner, I never paid much attention to them.  That is, until I started running.  Now, I find myself looking at people’s strides.  I know every runner who lives in my neighborhood.  Not personally, mind you, but after months of running and waving as you pass them, you develop a certain respect and an unspoken camaraderie.

 

There is one guy in particular that is the most dedicated runner I have ever seen in my life.  He isn’t pretty to look at. He does not stride like a gazelle on the Savanna.  In fact, I am always afraid he is going to trip over his own large feet.  Sweat is always pouring down his face, even in winter.  And I admire this guy tremendously.  Why?  Because rain, shine, cold, or hot, this guy is running.  He is running everyday at two in the afternoon.  That’s right.  July in Texas 100+ degrees, and this guy is out running at the hottest point in the day.  At first, I just thought he was one stupid SOB.  You could not pay me enough money to run at that time of day.  Not in Texas. 

But on Monday, as I crawled out of bed sniffling with the remnants of a summer cold and sat at my computer, I thought of my loping runnerman.  I didn’t want to write.  I wanted to go straight back to bed and snuggle under the covers.  But my sweaty runnerman, wouldn’t do that.  He would get out at the hottest point of the day and run. 

It takes dedication.  It takes balls of steel.  It takes a bit of stupidity.

He made me realize something.  Something I already knew but hadn’t pieced together. Writing, running, it’s all the same.  To succeed in either, it takes commitment.  

I used to only write when my illustrious muse demanded it.  That was before I wrote my novel.  If I had waited on that girl to get it together, I would have never finished my book.  She is far too fickle.  I have to give her some rules.  She still argues with me, but I write.  Every day.  Come rain or shine.  I have to keep up my writer’s stride.  Keep my girl in practice.  Improve her pace.  Build up her endurance.  Because I am in this for the long haul. 

120k, 120k, 120k . . .

Editing is hard.  Really, really hard.

No joke. 

I've learned a lot writing my first novel.  I’ve learned my bad habits. Hello, adverbs!  I’ve learned the importance of note taking.  Hello, Excel charts!  And I’ve learned that editing is far more important than writing the original draft.  Hello, cuts!

When I wrote my first draft, I knew nothing about the publishing industry or what was expected.  My only goal was to get words on a page.  Every time I thought about researching submission guidelines or agents, my creative sphincter would seize up.  So, I saved it for last.  Words on page.  Words on page.  Words on page.  That was my mantra.  I didn’t worry about word count.  I didn’t try to contain the flow of my thoughts.  I just wrote.

 In the end, my manuscript bloomed to a whooping 158k. 

I didn’t realize that was long until I started researching.  And even when I read Urban Fantasy should be no longer than 120k, I shrugged it off.  I was proud of my book.  I just knew if someone read it, the 158k wouldn’t be an issue.  I justified it.  There’s a lot of world building.  It has an ensemble cast.  I am setting up plot arcs for future books.  Excuses.  All of them.

I sent my query out for a few critiques.  One writer said of my word count, “You may have heard this before but… this is quite a lot.”  What she was really saying, “Holy shit!  Are you freakin' serious?  158k? ”

Now, I have a new mantra.  120k, 120k, 120k.  And I will keep repeating it until I shrink that word count.  What good is having a great novel that no agent will ever read because the word count scared them away?  This process hasn’t been easy, but my novel is better for it.  My writing is tighter with less repetition.

But I have cut scenes I love.  I have cut dialogue that made me giggle.  And just tonight, I cut a side-plot that made me weep.  It will have to wait for book two.

And that’s my goal, isn’t it?  To get published and get a book two? 

Hell, yes! 

So, I will cut.  And cut.  And cut, until I hit 120k.

As of tonight, I am down to 130k.  And the more I cut, the less I am attached to any one thing.  The big picture is what matters.  The end game.

Big thanks to those who helped convince me to deflate my monster in a box. I'm a better writer for it.

The Bands that Define Them

Writing the post on music got me thinking.  What would my characters’ soundtracks be like? What are their favorite bands?  What do they dance to in the kitchen? (Yes, I do this a lot.) What would be on a road trip playlist?  What are their favorite drinking songs?  What songs do they listen to when they're angry, sad, or happy?

We all have soundtracks.  The songs that mark passages in time.  The songs that bind us to others.  The songs that define us. 

Keeping this in mind, I gave myself an assignment.  I gathered a few of my characters in a room and threw out a question.  I wrote it as if I were eavesdropping on their conversation, transcribing the words and actions as they happened.  When I was done, I decided to share it with all of you.

What are your favorite bands?

Conlin – I’m fairly eclectic.  Tool, Fugazi, Johnny Cash, Zepplin, Tom Waits, Duke Ellington.

Dru – Conman will listen to anything.

Conlin (shrugs) – If it's good music, it's good music.  At least I branch out.

Dru – Hey, I branch out.

Conlin (laughs) – Yeah, right.  What from sludge to death?

Dru (suddenly very serious) – There are all types of metal, man.

Conlin – But it's still all metal, Dru.

Dru – I have not educated you enough, my friend.  Every single metal band, if it's good metal, is distinct.  You have your classic metal – Black Sabbath, Pantera, Metallica, well, the Ride the Lightning and Master of Puppets era.  Then you get into the ‘90s.  Rage Against the Machine. Deftones.  System of a Down. All unique.  Crowbar's from New Orleans.  They're what you call sludge metal. And you can't leave out Meshuggah.  They will blow your mind. Trash metal, death metal, math metal, call it what you will, they are the shit, man.  And if you really want dark and twisted, try Cannibal Corpse.  They –

Kasey (cutting Dru off) – Really, Conlin.  You had to get Cheeto all riled up and waxing poetic?

Conlin – It's too easy, Kase.  Far too easy.  (winks)

Dru – You suck, Conman.  And you, rat, shouldn't talk.  If it isn't Radiohead, it's crap, right?

Kasey – So? I'm a bit obsessive with Radio-

Dru – A bit?  Kasey you followed them around the country.  Twice!

Kasey – There’s nothing wrong with that.  I had the time and -

Dru – The stalker inclination...

Kasey – Not a stalker.  I just like the music.

Dru – To excess. 

Kasey – You can’t OD on Radiohead, so let me have me my fix.  Besides I dig a lot of different stuff, like old school Kraftwerk, for instance.

Dru (rolls his eyes) – You mean, Crapwerk.

(Kasey jumps up from her chair and whacks Dru on the arm.)

Dru – Ouch, rat.  You are stronger than you look.  That hurt.

Kasey – Good.  (Kasey grabs a Mountain Dew and flops back down in her chair.)  What about you, Izz?

Izzy – The Black Keys and Heartless Bastards are on permanent rotation at the moment, but I'm a Texan, so Willie resides in my heart and soul.  There's nothing better.

I think I might write more of these little vignettes.  It was fun and gave me insight into my characters.  Also of note, certain characters demanded floor time.  It’s always interesting to me whose voice will command attention in any given scene.  Kasey and Dru yelled the loudest this go-round.

A Little Book Music

I have discovered, as I have with everything else in my life, I can't write without music.

Music helps me delve into the heart of a scene, setting the tone and pace. Perhaps this comes from my origins in theater. Whenever I do a play, I create a soundtrack for my character. I play it throughout the rehearsal process and each night before I go onstage.

Music has always been a huge part of my life. A song can take me to an exact moment in my life and suddenly I am there again.  I can almost taste and touch the moment.  I hear Blondie and I am roller skating around my cul-de-sac, all arms and legs and Farah hair and uncertainty.  I hear the B-52's and my heart is racing as I fumble in the dark, making out with a boy for the first time.  I hear Van Morrison and I am crying as my best friend travels hundreds of miles away.  I hear The Proclaimers and I am walking down the aisle hand-in-hand, having just said, "I do."

The soundtrack of my life is how I mark time.  Someone will ask when an event took place and all I have to do is associate music with the event, and I know exactly the time and place it occurred.

As I wrote the book, certain music just worked.  There really wasn't a rhyme or reason.  Some was new music; some was old.  One day nothing seemed to work until I drug out an old Belly album and suddenly I was in the groove.

So for those musical fanboys and fangirls, like me, here are the albums that were in frequent rotation while I wrote.

The Decemberists - Picaresque & Hazards of Love
The xx - xx
Florence + the Machine - Ceremonials & Lungs
The Duke Spirit - Bruiser
The Black Keys - Brothers
Phantogram - Eyelid Movies
Thao & Mirah - Thao & Mirah
Belly - Star
Magnet - On Your Side

I'm not sure what it was about these albums that clicked for me.  There was a lot of other music I was listening to that didn't work while I wrote.  I'm curious what the next soundtrack will be.  Will some albums appear again?  Or will they forever be associated with book one?  I know I can't hear The xx without having Conlin and Izzy whispering in my ear.  Their story is most definitely not done.  Mayhaps in book two The xx will slip into rotation when I focus on them, like having their own theme song.  

Mother's Day

I wrote this poem a decade or so ago.  As today is Mother's Day, it seems appropriate to share it now.  It's interesting reading it again after all these years, especially now that I have my own daughter.  This poem is dedicated to my mother and grandmother, my lineage.

Lineage

Circa 1972 and my mother whose belly is round and full, heavy

with the flesh of my unborn body, wakes.

Midnight nears, I kick and squirm, struggling

against the natural course of time, unwilling

to leave her womb without a fight.

Circa 1977 and my bare feet stand on the cold

linoleum of my grandmother’s kitchen floor.  My mother

and grandmother stand close beside me.  One tablespoon

of vanilla.  Stir it in now.  My hand grips the metal handle, plunging

the spoon into the dough. I see my opportunity as they both turn away.

My finger dips into the raw butter, sugar and eggs, pulling

up just enough to taste.

Circa 1979 and my roller skates, permanently

affixed to my feet, move

in unison to the beat of Blondie, skidding

around my cul-de-sac for my first taste of freedom.

I spread my arms wide, absorbing the final rays of sunlight

before my mother calls me inside.

Circa 1987 and I am fighting -

Fighting to get out.

The pink bristles of my shaved head stand in revolt

against everyone and everything.  Patiently,

my mother waits for me to be born.

Circa 1988 and my hand yearns to feel her warm breath.

For a moment, I can feel it.  I see

her chest rise and fall.  Maybe

she’s only sleeping. 

A tear falls from my mother’s eye.

She’s gone.

I look back to my grandmother’s still body and see my mother –

my lineage.

My fists unclench and my arms spread wide,

to embrace the past.

Circa 1948 and my grandmother whose belly is round and full, heavy

with the flesh of my mother’s unborn body, wakes.

Midnight nears, my mother kicks and squirms, struggling

against the natural course of time, unwilling

to leave her womb without a fight.

The Peregrine Falcon

In the past year, I have talked to many people about novel writing, both professionals and friends.  There are two questions that are always asked.  The first is what inspires me.  I can't tell you how many times I have been asked my inspiration.  It is a difficult question to answer and inevitably follows the other common question, "What are you writing about?"

The conversation goes something like this.  Joe Curious asks, "So you're writing a novel.  That's awesome.  What are you writing about?"

I say, "It's urban fantasy."

He cocks his head and looks at me questioningly, "Urban fantasy, eh?" 

I can tell he isn't exactly sure what that is, and sometimes even I wonder.  There isn't an urban fantasy section at most bookstores.  Books in that genre haphazardly get shoved into horror, mystery, or romance.  For some inexplicable reason, I feel the need to explain the genre when anyone looks at me the way Joe Curious is looking at me now.   It is a mixture of confusion and skepticism. 

I take a deep breath and say, "Urban fantasy books take place in modern day but with mythical or fantastical elements."  Really that is the easiest way I can explain the genre to a non-reader without confusing them more than they already are.

What do I really want to say when people ask what my book is about?  Fighting, fucking, and fireballs.  It's clean and concise, but I worry about offending people.  Most times Joe Curious is a former co-worker or acquaintance or former student.  After teaching high school AP English, people expect a certain kind of novel from you.  A former AP teacher shouldn't be writing fantasy, certainly not one that has paranormal and romantic elements.

No.

They should be writing the great American novel with all the heartbreak and misery that comes with the classics so many of us suffered through in our own high school English classes.

Don't get me wrong.  I love the classics.  I have my degree in English literature.  In high school, I read Ayn Rand's Anthem in Ms. Wallace's 9^th grade pre-IB English class and was hooked.  I tore through The Fountainhead and stumbled through Atlas Shrugged.  I discovered Faulkner, Hemingway, and Cather.  I moved on to British authors, devouring Dickens, Bronte (Emily, Charlotte, and Anne), and Joyce.  Camus' The Stranger changed my life.  I started reading all the existentialists, which led to the Russian authors.  And is there a Shakespeare play I haven't read?  No.  I've even read Troilus and Cressida.

But do I want to live in those worlds?  No.  And writing a novel means living in that world.  You can't put the book down in a few days and walk away.  You live in that world each day when you write.

I did a lot of theater in my twenties and always wanted to do a meaty drama.  It seemed I always got cast as the ingénue in comedic farces.  Finally, I had my opportunity.  I was cast in Dancing at Lughnasa.  For twelve weeks, I lived the life of Aggie.  I died every week.  I lived a pitifully sad existence.  Aggie crept into every part of my life.  I loved the show.  I relished the opportunity to play a character with such depth, but after it was over, I was done.  Give me farce any day!

It is the same with writing.  At least for me it is.  What I write creeps into my life.  I still read the classics and the modern fiction that will someday become the classics, but primarily I read fantasy, horror, and paranormal romance. I can't read normal, run of the mill novels or romances.  They bore me to tears. To quote Jennie Breeden of The Devil's Panties, "I like a little carnage with my smut." (http://thedevilspanties.com/archives/6161)

Back to Joe curious who nods at my explanation and offers, "Cool.  So, where did you get your inspiration?"

This is the far more difficult question.  The smallest, most insignificant things can provide the most inspiration.   I like drawing from the ordinary and imagining the fantastical.  I love the thought that magic surrounds us.

One day I was taking my son to school.  He is in kindergarten and he said, "What is the fastest animal in the world?"

I said, "The cheetah?"

"No, mom.  It's the peregrine falcon.  It can go like a billion miles an hour."

"Really, a billion?"

"Yep.  The Wild Kratts said so.  They know everything about animals."

"Peregrine falcons are really cool.  They are my favorite."

In that moment, a story element came to me that changed the course of my novel.  It was only an ordinary conversation with my son, but the spark was there all the same.  A kernel of light hidden in the usual morning banter.

I went home that day and wrote twenty pages.

Magic.

Inspiration comes every day in little ways.  You just have to pay attention.  Take the time to sit and watch.  Too often we rush through each day not stopping to appreciate the business of living.  When we do stop, we find magic.

Marking Time

 ‎"Yesterday, everybody smoked his last cigar, took his last drink and swore his last oath. Today, we are a pious and exemplary community. Thirty days from now, we shall have cast our reformation to the winds and gone to cutting our ancient shortcomings considerably shorter than ever." - Mark Twain

New Year's Eve is just another marker of time.  We like to mark time.  We like periods of rebirth.  It allows us a second chance.  A chance to forget our trespasses.  A chance to reinvent ourselves.  And whether New Year's is really just another day on the calendar or not, for many it is that chance at redemption. 

Personally, this coming year marks a huge passage of time.  I will turn forty in August.  I have begun reflecting on the past decade and asking the standard array of questions. Am I where I thought I would be?  Have I lived well?  Have I accomplished things I am proud of?

To answer those question I have to go to the start, my 30^th birthday.  I was finishing my English degree at the University of Houston and getting ready to start my teaching career.  A real grown up job.  You see, until this point, I was by and large, a big kid.  I floated from job to job with no clear idea of who or what I wanted to be.  I worked in a bookstore; I toured with Bill and Tek's Excellent Theater; I sporadically ran my own photography business; I mixed oils at an aromatherapy company; I filed medical records at a cardiologist's office; I was a receptionist at an architecture firm.  In essence, I lacked focus.  Do I regret squandering away my twenties?  Not one bit. 

I had a blast. 

I made mistakes.  I dated the wrong guys. I lived in crappy apartments and had chunks of plaster fall on me while I showered.  I formed lasting friendships with amazing people.  I learned never to drink a Car Bomb at the end of a night of drinking.  I met my future husband.  I stayed up all night gaming.  I drove twenty-four hours to LA to stay less than forty-eight hours and head back home again.  I danced until my feet hurt and laughed until my sides split. 

I wouldn't trade one minute. 

When I turned thirty, I was ready.  I was ready to start a new decade and put the confusing mess of my twenties behind me.  I was more self-assured.  I was confident.  I began teaching and found a love I never knew I had.  I got married.  I had my first child.  I traveled.  I went to Jamaica, Scotland, New York, Colorado, and Florida.  I had my second child.  I became a stay-at-home mom.  I started writing my novel.  I fostered traditions with friends and family that I will cherish forever.  I danced with my children until my feet hurt and laughed until my sides split.

So am I where I thought I would be?  Yes and no.

My thirty-year-old self would have said, "Yes.  Most definitely, yes!"  She would be exactly where I am today.

But my twenty-year-old self, I would have said, "No way!"  She would have been living in New York doing theater.

And if you went even farther back to my ten-year-old self?  She would have said, "I am going to be a writer and have a family.  One boy and one girl."  She knew better than I who I was to become.  If only I would have listened to her sooner, but then, I wouldn't be where I am today. 

Some years are better than others and 2011 was my best year yet, both personally and creatively.  There are many things I hope to accomplish this year.  I am not a big resolution maker, but I do set goals for myself.  Last year, I vowed to start my novel.  This year, I vow to finish my second draft and start the process of finding an agent.

In ten years, I will reflect on my forties and say, "That is the decade I became a published author and had my first best-seller."

I wish you all the best in 2012.  May your year be full of laughter and love and joy! 

-Kristi