Woo Hoo!

Yay! I have good news!

Well, good news for me. The vast majority of people, (all three of you who aren't my parents or spouse), won't care, but I'm happy!

A short story I wrote a year or so ago is going to be published in an anthology!

(Cue applause, or make that breathy sound in your cupped hands, either works.)

I'll post details when I have them.

I must get busy. I'd lie and say that I am doing important things, but really I'm doing my version of Snoopy's happy dance.

Novel Infidelity

Back in October, I posted on this blog my commitment to using NaNoWriMo to finish my WIP. I'm here to report back on my progress.

I have, indeed, finished my novel. The book is 92,025 words. 

I typed "the end," and sat back to wait for the fireworks. None came. I waited for some pride to sneak in and fluff up my ego. It didn't. I waited for that sense of completion to come and overwhelm me. Again, I waited in vain. 

I don't feel proud, (well, maybe a little). Let me amend that. I don't feel proud that I have a completed first draft, because that's all it is. It's a first draft, in dire need of revisions. The night before I finished it, Sunday night, I tossed and turned in my bed thinking of all the things I needed to go fix. It wasn't technically done yet, I still had to write the chapter that tied up all the loose ends. But the nagging itch, that is what I feel more than anything. The nagging urge to fix, correct, and mold what I have now into something sparkly. I feel the call to revise. 

But what to do? I've read on other blogs and books of advice to writers that suggest I need to walk away from the novel for a while. I need to go do something else so when I do come back to it, my eyes won't be clouded by what I think it should be and lose the focus on what it is. It's good advice, advice I've passed on to others, as a matter of fact. But for me it's really hard to follow. 

It took so long for me to commit to finishing the dang thing. Now that the story's been vomited onto the page, I feel like if I don't clean it up now I'll never get back to it. So I'm in a quandary. Do I trust the advice of people far wiser than I, or do I trust what I know about myself? 

And to add more problems to my situation, I have two or three more books I want to write. The ideas for them have been bubbling around in my mental percolator for weeks, and I want to play with them. Is it cheating to write another book while I'm still committed to my first one? Novel infidelity, I'm shocked at myself. 

NaNoWriMo Update

I was very proud for the first four days of NaNo. I was beating the 1667 a day word count, and the little  data page told me I would finish my 50,000 words early.

And then Sunday happened.

Sunday afternoon I start feeling a little...wrong.

By Sunday evening, I was certain a HazMat team would enter my home to take me away. No one should have approached me without full biohazard gear on. I had the Stomach Virus To End All Stomach Viruses. Yes, it should be capitalized.

I lay in bed like a dead thing for three days.

So, now I'm struggling to get enough words written each day to win NaNo. My dreams of hitting 50K before Thanksgiving are crushed, all thanks to whatever little urchin passed the bug to my son at school.

Ugh.

How I Spent Halloween: The Goatman

Halloween to my kids means candy and costumes, but this year it meant NaNoWriMo prep for me. So this is how I spent my Halloween. It was supposed to be a flash fiction story, but apparently I don't have a gift for getting a story out in 1,000 words or less. I'm not that pleased with it, but for only working on it for a day it's passable.

Without further ado:

The Goatman

by Bethany Valles

Some cities celebrate their founding, others the harvest of their local crop. But no one knows when Goat, Texas, a tiny ranching community in the Valley, began, and the only thing that grows well here is cactus. So we celebrate Goat Day. It’s not usually a big deal. There’s a Tilt-a-Whirl, a Ferris wheel, deep-fried candy bars, and carnival games. I was tired of it by the time I was six, but my parents kept dragging me through the gaudy display every year anyway.

The day before the festival my parents sat me down. They’d already been pushy at dinner, saying I needed another helping, that I was too skinny. It was annoying. So when they each sat down beside me on the couch and turned off the TV, I knew nothing good could come of it.

“Casey, you know Goat Day is tomorrow,” Mom said.

“Yeah, so? What’s up, Mom?”

 “Let’s just tell her,” Mom said over my head, looking directly at Dad with one of those stares that meant something to him, but not me.

“Honey, you’ve been chosen to be the Cheva!” Mom said after a pause. Her tone was excited on the surface, but her eyes didn’t match her voice. They were cold.

“Oh, great. Cheva, that’s cool,” I said, trying not to sound too bored. The Cheva was sort of like the Goat Day queen. She led the parade in a white dress, and then went to sit on her throne. She has ropes tied to her hands, and then she waits for this guy dressed like a goat to come take her down, sort of a goat-hero rescuing the damsel-in-distress. It was the lamest tradition I could imagine. But it’s the best a town called Goat could come up with.

Maggie Cervantes was the Cheva last year, and she acted like she’d been elected homecoming queen. I guess I should be excited, but I wasn’t.

 The day of the opening parade dawned way too early. Mom woke me up at six and told me to get cleaned up.

Then the primping began. Mom and the town beautician, Leticia, were plucking, buffing, waxing, and polishing anything that was exposed.

Before I knew it, the dress was on and it was time for the parade. I stood in front of the whole thing. The war veterans marched behind me, and everyone in town who owned an instrument was behind them. The football team came next, and then lastly, the cheerleaders.

I waited for the cue from the guy directing the band before I started walking. When he waved at me, I walked around the corner of the bank where we’d been waiting, expecting applause.

None came.

It felt like I was part of a funeral procession. The crowd was solemn. It was weird. I’d planned on smiling and waving a lot, but suddenly it seemed a much better idea to get to the end of the route fast.

I did my best not to run, but when I heard my mother’s wail from the crowd I couldn’t help it. I ran, and not for the end of the route, I ran for the first door I saw. I sprinted toward Flor’s, a Mexican diner I knew well. But suddenly there was a wall of people in my way. I slowed, looking for a way around them, but before I could dodge them there were hands on me, turning me around and shoving me roughly back into the street, to the humiliating parade.

I tried again and again to escape, each time I was pushed back into the procession. Finally, I just stopped. I stood still, and waited for the veterans to go around me.

Instead, fingers wrapped tightly around my arms and began to propel me forward. I looked around me to see an old man on each side. Each one had a pistol, but the one on my right actually took his out and held it to my ribs, pushing the barrel against me to move me forward.

“Please,” I begged. I don’t know when I started crying, but I noticed now that my voice was wavering.

“You got to,” was all he said.

I looked into the crowd, trying in vain to find an outraged face, someone who would help.

And then we turned the corner, onto Main Street, where the throne stood. I didn’t know why, but I suddenly understood that under no circumstances would I go up those steps and sit on that chair.

I fought. I kicked the men holding me. I pulled with all my strength against their grasping fingers. I screamed.

“Please, someone, help me!” I yelled at the onlookers. But all the eyes I met looked away.

I thought of my parents’ faces as they explained my role this year, and a new horror overtook my frantic mind. They knew. They knew, as I knew now, that something bad was coming.

All the fight went out of me then. I sagged in the hands of men I didn’t know, and they dragged my limp body up the steps, turned me, and sat me on the throne.

The hands didn’t release me as someone new, the mayor, I realized, began tying me to the throne. I wasn’t the least bit surprised when the ropes were pulled so tight they bit into my skin. I remembered, idly, that the ropes were so loose for Maggie Cervantes they’d actually fallen off early.

I looked up from my lap to stare at the crowd. Last year the crowd pressed up against the steps to the throne. Now they were still flanking the street, like the parade wasn’t over yet. The local sheriff’s department had joined the veterans and they were all standing in front of the people, like they were trying to protect them. They were all armed. They were all silent.

I could hear the wind whistling through the streets, blowing plastic bags and fliers advertising the sales at the local grocery store around in circles.

The weight of the stares aimed in my direction felt like it was pinning me to the chair, a separate restraint from the ropes.

I heard someone gasp. I looked toward whoever it was but before I could locate them, I heard something else.

I heard a snuffling sound. It sounded like an animal following a scent. I remembered last year, when the captain of the football team had played the goat hero. A guy dressed like a goat, playing a role…

Oh no…

My imagination didn’t have time to run amok, because the monster was coming up the street now, following my scent.

It had thick, dark hair, or it could have been the thing’s skin. It was easily eight feet tall, even hunched as it was. It’s legs bent backward when it walked, like an animal taught to walk upright. I heard a clicking when it stepped forward in its jerky, crouched gait. It was narrow; it’s shoulders as wide as it’s hips. As it came closer, I could tell that its skin was not as dark as its hair. It grew like fur on its legs and mid-section and thinned over its chest. Its arms bent in a more humanoid way at the elbows and for one second I felt reassured by that.

And then I saw the thing’s hands.

Two very long, very narrow fingers protruded not from a wrist, but from the elbow. The digits didn’t seem to bend, for when the creature bent to crouch and sniff the places I’d been it leaned on them like crutches.

The beast’s head was shaped like a goat, with a longer muzzle and protruding ears. But its eyes… the eyes were slit like a goat’s. And red.

I screamed. I couldn’t help it. I thrashed against the ropes until blood flowed from my chafed skin. It was a mistake.

Its eyes focused on me. The goat-man shuddered in a long rippling motion along its back. It crouched, and leaped, farther than should be possible, and landed on the stairs to the dais where I was trapped.

It stood at the foot of the steps and watched me as I watched it. I heard a high-pitched noise, like a tea kettle whistling. It was coming from me.

The goat-man’s features were too animalistic to be attached to a mostly humanoid body. My mind couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. I tried to see the costume, the individual pieces that made up the whole.

But there was no seam to find. This was real. I felt cold all over as I realized the whole town play-acts this scene every year.

It smiled at me, as these horrifying pieces began to fit together in my head. It was intelligent enough to understand I was terrified, and it enjoyed that.

The teeth inside the muzzle didn’t belong. They were far, far too numerous and tiny, like hundreds of needles lining its mouth.

Hide. Make myself small. Don’t look, it’s not real it can’t be real. Mommy help me. Wake me up Mommy I’m asleep. Hide hide hide…

“Well, that’s over,” Sheriff Riggs said to Oscar. Oscar nodded slowly. “Wish she wasn’t a screamer. I hate it when they scream,” was Oscar’s only reply.

They both watched as the fire chief opened up the hydrant and washed what was left of Casey down the storm drains of Main Street.  

What Inspires Me Is Disturbing

It's true.

I find all kinds of things inspiring. Some, like the way the sunlight glows through the strip of forest in my backyard, are beautiful. But mostly, it's the black sticky underside of humanity that really gets my creative juices flowing.

Take this news story, for example. A pregnant bride murdered in her apartment, a cryptic note promising more deaths in the future left with her body.

Please understand that I'm horrified by what happened to this poor woman. She had other children and a fiance who are grieving now. My heart goes out to those poor people.

But this real-life story is the kind of thing that really gets my mind going; the true stories of really horrible people being horrible.

In real life, the police are almost always smarter than the criminal. Remember the story about the criminal who robs a liquor store and then demands the clerk grab him a bottle, too, only to be stupid enough to produce his ID when the clerk cards him? I truly believe most criminals fit into that "too stupid to breathe with their mouths closed" category. (I need to check Snopes.com for that story, it crops up too often to be real, even if it's realistic.)

And even if the police aren't smarter than the criminal, they've got more people working on catching the bad guy. One murderer trying to get away with it can't usually compete with a team of people all focused on holding him accountable for his crime. Because this is the real world, that's a very comforting thought.

But in fiction, all bets are off. Since I focus solely on fiction, my bad guy can get away with a lot more than he would in the real world. A really bad, evil, and brilliant nemesis is much more fun than a really good, moral protagonist. I mean, who went and saw Superman in the theaters and walked away thinking Superman stole the show? Everyone talked about Lex Luthor, because he was just more interesting.

I love a good paranormal/fantasy story. When the bad guys, (or the good guys, too, in some cases), have fangs or superhuman strength, it's fun because the reader knows the level of "bad" just increased exponentially. The damage that can be done to the hero/heroine just went up, so the interest level went up, too.

News stories remind me that not all villains have fangs or superhuman strength. Bad guys can be average-looking and unassuming. Bad guys can go to work for 40 hours a week at a regular job, only to do unspeakable things in their basement on the weekends.

And to me, it's more interesting if the one who's dismembering the neighbors could be the guy who gives out the jaunty, two-fingered salute and a grin as you drive by.

National Novel Writing Month

I participated in NaNoWriMo two years ago, and thoroughly enjoyed it.

For those who don't know, (I'm sure there are still some,) National Novel Writing Month, (November,) or NaNoWriMo, is an international event whose aim is to get writers writing, even if they're writing badly. It's a free-for-all, and very motivating.

The goal: Write 50k words in one month, which could technically be a novel.

I developed a nervous twitch in my eyebrow and hives on my arms and legs, but other than that, the time was well spent.

I didn't really get close to the 50k word goal, but the process the event takes you through showed me how to be a disciplined writer. Before NaNoWriMo I had never before set aside time in my day for my writing. I didn't have goals or a plan, I just sat down and wrote whenever the spirit moved me. NaNoWriMo taught me that setting goals is important. And the little line graph that charts your progress is unbelievably motivating.

I also learned to always have a tube of cortizone cream in my medicine cabinet. Seriously.

But last year I skipped NaNoWriMo. I'd kinda sorta quit writing. I never said I had quit out loud. Out loud, I used the time-honored excuses of, "I don't have time lately," or "I'm not feeling 'inspired'". The fact of the matter is I didn't do NaNo last year because I was scared of having my excuses stripped away, and if there are no more excuses, I have to try to be successful. NaNo forces me to try to be successful.

And if I try, there's a possibility I could fail. Not the word count goals, that's secondary for me. If I try to write a sellable novel, something people would enjoy reading, and I fail... Well, I don't even know. I have an idea that failing would be very, very painful because I want it so bad. I've never before pushed myself to finish a project like NaNo will. I've always allowed myself to get sidetracked from finishing so that true failing, (being told I've got no talent), isn't possible.

I can't query if I don't have a finished project. If I can't query, I can't be rejected. So technically, I haven't failed. Yet. Wistful 'might-have-beens' are harmless compared to outright failure.

I'm a little over 48k into my novel and November is still weeks away. If...I mean when, I write 50k more, I'll be well over 100k words, which will be lots of buffer to cut what needs cutting when I revise.

So, here goes. I'm making a declaration in an attempt to achieve success, rather than to avoid failure.

I'm going to use National Novel Writing Month to finish my WIP.

I feel itchy already...

Hook 'Em!!!

I'm a die-hard Longhorn fan.

I have burnt orange blood coursing through my veins.

Both my kids have UT jerseys, which they are wearing today.

Go Texas! Beat OU!

The Cadillac of Office Chairs

So my parents drove about a thousand miles to come visit my family in Indiana. There's all the stress that goes along with that, the "is my house clean enough?" and "will my kids behave?' issues that keep you up at night before they arrive. I really should have known better.

The time was fun. I could have had black mold growing in my kitchen sink and they wouldn't have cared so long as they got to play with the kids. And I talked a lot about writing with my dad, who also writes. Which is the reason they bought me the most awesome computer I've ever had. My dad wants me to have every advantage I can in this venture. 

Honestly, just thinking about it chokes me up. I think back to all the times I was a brat and they loved me anyway, or reflect on some of my more spectacular failures when they've been there to help me make it better. Parents are so giving to their kids, no matter that their kids are grown. Well, mine are. I hope I can do the same for my kids when they're grown. 

As I sat down to write at my awesome computer after they left, I noticed a huge problem. I had this beautiful example of technological craftsmanship sitting on my desk, and I was going to sit on a folding chair to use it. Normally, I'm very much a "make it work" kind of person. Except I wasn't at the right height to type comfortably, no matter how I adjusted. 

I decided to spoil myself.

I went to Staples and got the Cadillac of office chairs. It's got a high back. It's got the little lever that adjusts the height of the seat. It has nice armrests.

And it's extra cushy on my bum. 

I love my new setup, and I've vowed to make my productivity match my equipment. 

Jack Squat

Yeah, I got zilch done this week.

Well, I was awesome, (for me, that is,) on Friday. I wrote 1500 words in an hour.

I've been entertaining my parents who graciously drove over a thousand miles to see me, for which I'm very grateful.

They also brought me a very nice new computer, so I'll probably post a lot of crap just because I like to use it so much. :)

Disappointing Week

Yes, this week has been a disappointment.

I started saving the chapters I work on by the date I started working on them, and now I think that might be a mistake. I opened up the last chapter and saw that I started work on it September 20th. And it's only about half-finished.

I'm not mad at the circumstances, I'm disappointed that I let seven days go by without doing anything. (Though for a few days I felt like a dried-out cow patty.) I'm mad and disappointed in myself for not making the time, despite what's going on, to put words down.

I had the idea that weekends would be time off. But I've learned that I'm not the kind of person who can do that. If I take Saturday and Sunday off, my rebellious brain will find a way to say I shouldn't write Monday either, Monday needs to be about, oh, I don't know, re-grouting the kitchen.

It's self-defeating. I fail before I really begin, therefore I can't be hurt by rejections later. And, as a bonus, I can still say wistfully, "I've always wanted to write," instead of, "I've been querying for five years and still no-go." And this, in part, explains the many times I've just quit over the years.

Yeah, I've got some issues. It's not that I've had a series of bad critiques so I'm scared of what professionals will say. Quite the contrary, I've always had extremely awesome critiques from awesome people who know what they're doing, who always say they want to see what happens next. The group I belonged to had several published authors in it. So that should be encouraging, right?

And... right there. Yep, that's the point my brain gets in the way. My brain says, "Oh, those sweet people. They don't want to hurt your feelings by telling you the truth. You know you can't string two words together coherently."

So, on top of trying to develop a schedule, a pattern of behavior I'll stick to, I'm trying to beat my traitorous brain into submission. I'm trying to tell myself that I don't care if the whole book royally sucks eggs, I'm going to finish it.

So there.

And, from last Thursday until today, I've written 1500 words. Ugh.

A New Experiment

Yeah. The title says it all.

I write mysteries, and I enjoy reading mysteries. I like to read books with strong characters, so that's also what I try to write. I read a lot of the blogs of other writers and published authors and try to glean as much information as I can from their experiences.

So I thought, why don't I share what I've learned?

And I've learned quite a lot. I started writing five years ago, and because I was just dabbling, I tried my hand at picture books. I thought the shorter the book, the easier it is, right? I admit I had no idea what I was doing. So I wrote a picture book of about five hundred words, (because that's what all the information out there said to do,) made a list of publishers, bought some large envelopes and postage, and sent my "masterpiece" out into the world. I didn't hear anything good. Mostly the letters back, if I got one at all, were all polite form letters saying a variation of "get a clue". One company didn't want to waste a whole sheet of paper on my form rejection, so I received a "no, thank you," on a fifth of a sheet of paper. Not encouraging.

So, I studied picture books. I read what authors had to say on the matter. And  I looked for advice wherever I could find it. Most of it was not helpful. In what other genre will you read advice that says, "make every word sing"? Geez.

So I quit. For a while. Okay, like a year. I was bad. I would start something new and immediately convince myself that I suck and I should stop pretending to be a writer. So I'd quit again. And it felt like I had an itch between my shoulder blades that I could never, ever reach unless I had a pen in my hand or sat at the keyboard. I know those of you who write will relate to that feeling.

Last week I recommitted to writing as a way of life. It makes me happy, if nothing else.

I write what I like to read now. I like to think I'm getting better at it. This blog will be about whatever pops into my head at the moment, and also probably a word count accountability tool for me. I'm a Texan exiled in Indiana, so I'll probably lament that some, too. If I have bad writing day, I'll also use this as a forum for my excuses.

Your patience is appreciated as I figure this thing out.

Oh, by the way, I wrote approximately 1500 words today.