THANK YOU CHARLOTTE!
Got my fact checking back. I hadn't done too horribly considering I was using internet sources, which tend to be limited and not always reliable. (Yes, there are good ones. But there are also bad ones, and it's hard to tell which are which sometimes.) I got to include some specific details I hadn't known, which helped me to beef up the word count. It's still a little short, but I sent it off to the editor. We'll see what she says.
I have to get moving. I'm the only staff member in the office this week, and it's a ZOO.
Later kids.
Friday, July 09, 2010
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
Short Story
Worked on a short story this weekend. I need to get back to the new book, but the story has been nibbling at the back of my mind, and I do have a publisher interested in it for an anthology. I just need to beef it up a bit to get the word count up. I also need to make sure that I have someone check some facts for me. I did some online research, but you have to be careful, because sometimes the online stuff isn't as accurate as it could be. Since I'm dealing with people's religious practices and culture as well as magic, I need to make sure I don't do something heinous.
As soon as my friend gets back on my fact checking, I'll finish editing it and send it off.
It's a romance. In fact, it's one of the most romancy things I've ever written.
We'll just have to see whether or not I've pulled it off properly.
Cie
As soon as my friend gets back on my fact checking, I'll finish editing it and send it off.
It's a romance. In fact, it's one of the most romancy things I've ever written.
We'll just have to see whether or not I've pulled it off properly.
Cie
Saturday, July 03, 2010
Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial
Good Morning. I've got to get working on the paying projects in a couple of minutes, so I'll just get right down to it, after I say that life is pretty good right now, so don't worry.
***************************
BAM, BAM, BAM.
The pounding not only shook the doorframe, it shook the wall. I could feel my cord shudder in its plug.
"Open the f***ing door!" A male voice, slurred with drink and drugs. I was guessing it belonged to Ryan. Such a charmer, waking the entire building at 2:30 in morning.
"Yeah, like that's gonna happen." Jen muttered.
"You're gonna give me the f***ing rent money, and you're doin' it now."
I watched as she sat up in bed, glanced at the clock and winced. Someone on the floor below was pounding on the ceiling with a broomstick in a non-verbal complaint about the racket Ryan was making. The sound was unmistakeable.
"I gave it to the landlord yesterday." The word asshole was implied, but not stated.
"You what?" He was stunned, and outraged.
"I ran into him in the hall." She took a deep breath. "He demanded the money and he told me that if we didn't catch up on last month in the next week he was throwing us out."
There was a pregnant pause. I could hear Carrie in the background. "Last month? Ryan, last month was when I . . . you had me . . . I mean, that's the only reason I . . ." She sounded like she was starting to cry and I had a feeling I didn't want to know what Ryan had had her do to earn their part of the rent.
Ryan's voice was gruff. "He's a lying bastard. I gave him that money."
Even I could tell he was lying, and it's not like I came with polygraph software.
"Look," Jen said with more calm and patience than I would've been able to muster, "I paid him for this month. I don't have any more money. I have to go to work in the morning and I need some sleep. Good night." She flopped down onto her mattress, pulling the blankets up over her head. It took a while for her to fall asleep though. No surprise. Hard to relax when you can clearly hear the sound of your roommate's heartbroken sobs through the closed door.
***************************
BAM, BAM, BAM.
The pounding not only shook the doorframe, it shook the wall. I could feel my cord shudder in its plug.
"Open the f***ing door!" A male voice, slurred with drink and drugs. I was guessing it belonged to Ryan. Such a charmer, waking the entire building at 2:30 in morning.
"Yeah, like that's gonna happen." Jen muttered.
"You're gonna give me the f***ing rent money, and you're doin' it now."
I watched as she sat up in bed, glanced at the clock and winced. Someone on the floor below was pounding on the ceiling with a broomstick in a non-verbal complaint about the racket Ryan was making. The sound was unmistakeable.
"I gave it to the landlord yesterday." The word asshole was implied, but not stated.
"You what?" He was stunned, and outraged.
"I ran into him in the hall." She took a deep breath. "He demanded the money and he told me that if we didn't catch up on last month in the next week he was throwing us out."
There was a pregnant pause. I could hear Carrie in the background. "Last month? Ryan, last month was when I . . . you had me . . . I mean, that's the only reason I . . ." She sounded like she was starting to cry and I had a feeling I didn't want to know what Ryan had had her do to earn their part of the rent.
Ryan's voice was gruff. "He's a lying bastard. I gave him that money."
Even I could tell he was lying, and it's not like I came with polygraph software.
"Look," Jen said with more calm and patience than I would've been able to muster, "I paid him for this month. I don't have any more money. I have to go to work in the morning and I need some sleep. Good night." She flopped down onto her mattress, pulling the blankets up over her head. It took a while for her to fall asleep though. No surprise. Hard to relax when you can clearly hear the sound of your roommate's heartbroken sobs through the closed door.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Wednesday Morning
Good Morning!
Okay, yes, it's been a few days. Maybe even a week or so. (I'm not sure. I didn't look.) You probably wonder what I've been up to. (Then again, maybe not. But we'll pretend you do so I have something to write about besides ENJOY THE 4th!!)
I am a workaholic.
I don't think about that too often. And I usually don't think of myself that way. But my son has accused me of it more than once, and, looking at the evidence, he's probably right. I have the day job. I have the writing. And when I'm not at one, I'm generally doing the other. I have had 1 vacation in my adult life that wasn't work or family related. Since I am a (ahem) mature adult, that's pretty freaking pathetic.
So I took 3 days off. Totally off. Laid around and READ. As you probably guessed, most writers are avid readers. But what no one tells you is that, once you start writing professionally the grueling deadlines make it VERY difficult to find time to read. Particularly so if you have a day job (which most of us do for the first several years).
I read 5½ books in 3 days. I blasted through the 2nd to most recent Vladamir Tod (Excellent YA Heather, by the way. Congrats!) And I went through 4 of the Sookie Stackhouse books. I was starting to re-read a particularly good section and wound up getting so caught up in it that I read to the end again. A sign of an excellent book. BIG kudos to Charlaine Harris (who doesn't need mine, she's got plenty more important ones stacked up. But she deserves every one.)
Alas, I am now back at the day job and must get to work.
Take care.
Good news on the horizon. I'll keep you posted.
Cie/C.T. Adams
Okay, yes, it's been a few days. Maybe even a week or so. (I'm not sure. I didn't look.) You probably wonder what I've been up to. (Then again, maybe not. But we'll pretend you do so I have something to write about besides ENJOY THE 4th!!)
I am a workaholic.
I don't think about that too often. And I usually don't think of myself that way. But my son has accused me of it more than once, and, looking at the evidence, he's probably right. I have the day job. I have the writing. And when I'm not at one, I'm generally doing the other. I have had 1 vacation in my adult life that wasn't work or family related. Since I am a (ahem) mature adult, that's pretty freaking pathetic.
So I took 3 days off. Totally off. Laid around and READ. As you probably guessed, most writers are avid readers. But what no one tells you is that, once you start writing professionally the grueling deadlines make it VERY difficult to find time to read. Particularly so if you have a day job (which most of us do for the first several years).
I read 5½ books in 3 days. I blasted through the 2nd to most recent Vladamir Tod (Excellent YA Heather, by the way. Congrats!) And I went through 4 of the Sookie Stackhouse books. I was starting to re-read a particularly good section and wound up getting so caught up in it that I read to the end again. A sign of an excellent book. BIG kudos to Charlaine Harris (who doesn't need mine, she's got plenty more important ones stacked up. But she deserves every one.)
Alas, I am now back at the day job and must get to work.
Take care.
Good news on the horizon. I'll keep you posted.
Cie/C.T. Adams
Sunday, June 20, 2010
It's Sunday and Father's Day
It's Father's Day, and my father is one of the best. I love him dearly, and am sad that I'm on the far side of the country today and can't give him a hug. But the good that I have and what good I am and do can be traced directly back to my father and mother. They are incredibly good people.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Serial (Finally)
The apartment building was a dump. The carpet was older than I was, worn through in spots, with stains I didn't want to contemplate. She even had to avoid a couple of soft spots in the floor. I hoped that wasn't the sound of rodents I was hearing in the walls, but it wouldn't have surprised me. I could hear sounds from almost every apartment, the walls were simply that thin.
She carried me up three flights of stairs before she reached her goal, a paper-thin door with peeling pale-green paint the worn metal numbers reading 302. She kicked gently at the bottom of the door and shouted "Carrie, let me in. My arms are full."
There was some grumbling from inside and the door was jerked open by a rumpled looking female, her eyes half-lidded from sleep.
"Jen? You got a computer?!" Her eyes came fully open, her voice ringing out loud and clear.
"SHHHHHH! You don't need to shout it out to the neighborhood. Do you want us to get robbed?" My new owner shoved past her irritably, making her way to the kitchen. She set my box on the table and rummaged a set of keys out of her pocked. She selected the newest, still bright and shiny, and slid it into an equally new deadbolt installed in the first door in the hall outside the kitchen. "Is Ryan still out of town?" She opened the door, revealing a clean, but spartan bedroom. Propping the door open with the nearest book (there were a lot of them) she came back to retrieve me.
"He's back. He went to the liquor store. I should probably warn you, he's pissed about the deadbolt. Said, 'What? She thinks we're going to steal her goddamned books? Like that's gonna happen.'"
She leaned against the doorframe, watching as Jen began unloading my component parts and setting them up on the desk she'd created using an old wooden door and some cinderblocks. She'd cleverly filled the knob hole with a plastic drinking glass to use as a pencil cup. More bricks and boards had created the shelves that lined one whole wall---shelves filled with worn books and magazines from the classics to tabloids. It was all neat. All organized, and completely alien to the rest of the apartment.
"It's not the books." Jen answered tersely. Her expression was closed off, her eyes dark and angry.
Carrie sighed. "I can't believe you're still pissed about that. Nothing happened. He was high as a kite." There was a long pause. "He even apologized." She made that sound like a miracle. Apparently Ryan never apologized for anything. And he hated books. Maybe I was being judgmental, but I was beginning to really dislike the guy, and I hadn't even met him.
"Don't tell him about the computer." Jen said seriously. "I got it at the junk shop. It's old. He wouldn't be able to get any money for it. But he'd give me shit about it. You know he would."
Carrie pulled away from the doorframe and shambled toward the sofa without answering.
"I mean it Carrie. Promise me you won't tell. It'll just cause trouble."
Carrie sank onto the couch, curling up under a bunch of none-too-clean looking blankets. I heard her mumble something unintelligible, but I was betting it wasn't a promise.
She carried me up three flights of stairs before she reached her goal, a paper-thin door with peeling pale-green paint the worn metal numbers reading 302. She kicked gently at the bottom of the door and shouted "Carrie, let me in. My arms are full."
There was some grumbling from inside and the door was jerked open by a rumpled looking female, her eyes half-lidded from sleep.
"Jen? You got a computer?!" Her eyes came fully open, her voice ringing out loud and clear.
"SHHHHHH! You don't need to shout it out to the neighborhood. Do you want us to get robbed?" My new owner shoved past her irritably, making her way to the kitchen. She set my box on the table and rummaged a set of keys out of her pocked. She selected the newest, still bright and shiny, and slid it into an equally new deadbolt installed in the first door in the hall outside the kitchen. "Is Ryan still out of town?" She opened the door, revealing a clean, but spartan bedroom. Propping the door open with the nearest book (there were a lot of them) she came back to retrieve me.
"He's back. He went to the liquor store. I should probably warn you, he's pissed about the deadbolt. Said, 'What? She thinks we're going to steal her goddamned books? Like that's gonna happen.'"
She leaned against the doorframe, watching as Jen began unloading my component parts and setting them up on the desk she'd created using an old wooden door and some cinderblocks. She'd cleverly filled the knob hole with a plastic drinking glass to use as a pencil cup. More bricks and boards had created the shelves that lined one whole wall---shelves filled with worn books and magazines from the classics to tabloids. It was all neat. All organized, and completely alien to the rest of the apartment.
"It's not the books." Jen answered tersely. Her expression was closed off, her eyes dark and angry.
Carrie sighed. "I can't believe you're still pissed about that. Nothing happened. He was high as a kite." There was a long pause. "He even apologized." She made that sound like a miracle. Apparently Ryan never apologized for anything. And he hated books. Maybe I was being judgmental, but I was beginning to really dislike the guy, and I hadn't even met him.
"Don't tell him about the computer." Jen said seriously. "I got it at the junk shop. It's old. He wouldn't be able to get any money for it. But he'd give me shit about it. You know he would."
Carrie pulled away from the doorframe and shambled toward the sofa without answering.
"I mean it Carrie. Promise me you won't tell. It'll just cause trouble."
Carrie sank onto the couch, curling up under a bunch of none-too-clean looking blankets. I heard her mumble something unintelligible, but I was betting it wasn't a promise.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Cool Factor/Chill Factor
I feel as though I may need to explain myself a bit. I don't care if other people think I'm cool. I care that I'm boring myself. For me the cool factor is being able to be whimsical and have fun without having there be dire social consequences. The smaller the area, and the more conservative, the less opportunity there usually is for fun, and the less tolerance there is for whimsy.
I am in a very small and VERY conservative community. So I feel constrained. Maybe they're not constraining me (or not deliberately) but I feel it nonetheless. Thus, I have lost my coolness. Because of how I feel, not because of other people's perceptions.
Does that make sense?
Cie
I am in a very small and VERY conservative community. So I feel constrained. Maybe they're not constraining me (or not deliberately) but I feel it nonetheless. Thus, I have lost my coolness. Because of how I feel, not because of other people's perceptions.
Does that make sense?
Cie
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Good Morning to All
Good morning!
I only have a couple minutes before I have to start the day job, but I thought I'd drop a line before I did.
First, I have forwarded the beginnings of the proposal I was working on this weekend to be reviewed. I am hoping it passes muster. One of my worries was that the teenagers would sound like they were thirty. I am not a youngster. My son is an adult. It's not like I hear "teen" around me much. Still, I think it went better in third person than in first. I apparently can sound like a teen better than I can THINK like one. (For which I think we should all now pause and be grateful. LOL I was, admittedly, a bit of a handful as a teen. And I DEFINITELY had a mind of my own.)
ANYWAY, I hope to get input before I go much farther down the road into the book because, well, I want to get input. If it is dreadful, I'd rather they ripped off the bandage in one agonizing pull than have it linger, wasting my energy and time for months.
I am in the midst of a short story that isn't exactly late (because it didn't exactly have a deadline) but REALLY should've been done weeks ago, except I stopped to do the proposal, and go through tax documents (still not done, but at least 1/3 through now, making headway), and do all that life and businessy stuff.
I have also come to the conclusion that I am not cool. This is somewhat alarming. I was the cool aunt. I was a reasonably cool mom. (I was a SERIOUSLY uncool teen, but a lot of the most interesting people I know were). But I've somewhere along the way lost "much of my muchness." I can be funny. Clever even. But passing into middle age I lost my "cool factor." I think perhaps part of it is that I have been unhappy and in a small town, where indulging my basic nature would probably get me at least reprimanded at work and whispered and gossipped about around town.
I miss cool. I miss wearing hats when I want, and my leather biker jacket. I MISS PLAYING POOL, and hanging out in diners, playing video games and going places where the Muzak is Muzak rather than a country station that plays stuff that puts my teeth on edge. (I am positive there is good country music. It just doesn't seem to get much play where I am.)
Ah, time to work. Toodles.
Cie
I only have a couple minutes before I have to start the day job, but I thought I'd drop a line before I did.
First, I have forwarded the beginnings of the proposal I was working on this weekend to be reviewed. I am hoping it passes muster. One of my worries was that the teenagers would sound like they were thirty. I am not a youngster. My son is an adult. It's not like I hear "teen" around me much. Still, I think it went better in third person than in first. I apparently can sound like a teen better than I can THINK like one. (For which I think we should all now pause and be grateful. LOL I was, admittedly, a bit of a handful as a teen. And I DEFINITELY had a mind of my own.)
ANYWAY, I hope to get input before I go much farther down the road into the book because, well, I want to get input. If it is dreadful, I'd rather they ripped off the bandage in one agonizing pull than have it linger, wasting my energy and time for months.
I am in the midst of a short story that isn't exactly late (because it didn't exactly have a deadline) but REALLY should've been done weeks ago, except I stopped to do the proposal, and go through tax documents (still not done, but at least 1/3 through now, making headway), and do all that life and businessy stuff.
I have also come to the conclusion that I am not cool. This is somewhat alarming. I was the cool aunt. I was a reasonably cool mom. (I was a SERIOUSLY uncool teen, but a lot of the most interesting people I know were). But I've somewhere along the way lost "much of my muchness." I can be funny. Clever even. But passing into middle age I lost my "cool factor." I think perhaps part of it is that I have been unhappy and in a small town, where indulging my basic nature would probably get me at least reprimanded at work and whispered and gossipped about around town.
I miss cool. I miss wearing hats when I want, and my leather biker jacket. I MISS PLAYING POOL, and hanging out in diners, playing video games and going places where the Muzak is Muzak rather than a country station that plays stuff that puts my teeth on edge. (I am positive there is good country music. It just doesn't seem to get much play where I am.)
Ah, time to work. Toodles.
Cie
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Good Morning
Hi guys!
Inkspot the Infamous is determined, DETERMINED that I will not type another word until he has been appropriately appreciated, loved, petted on and generally indulged. Working around a large black furball with claws is NOT easy.
[LONG PAUSE--INSERT PURRING AND NUDGING]
Okay, MAYBE I can type a little more. [NOPE]
Now, I have been working hard on re-working a proposal that was originally going to be a graphic novel, but now probably isn't. It's very exciting, but it has a completely and totally different voice, tone, and well . . . everything from the Saturday AM Breakfast Serial that is running now. Since I HAVE to get that done I am going to do it this morning, and reward myself with serial after dinner. So, please tune back in either tonight or tomorrow a.m. for our latest adventure with Ed.
My apologies for any inconvenience, but my brain isn't as young as it used to be, nor is it as flexible.
Bestest.
Cie
Inkspot the Infamous is determined, DETERMINED that I will not type another word until he has been appropriately appreciated, loved, petted on and generally indulged. Working around a large black furball with claws is NOT easy.
[LONG PAUSE--INSERT PURRING AND NUDGING]
Okay, MAYBE I can type a little more. [NOPE]
Now, I have been working hard on re-working a proposal that was originally going to be a graphic novel, but now probably isn't. It's very exciting, but it has a completely and totally different voice, tone, and well . . . everything from the Saturday AM Breakfast Serial that is running now. Since I HAVE to get that done I am going to do it this morning, and reward myself with serial after dinner. So, please tune back in either tonight or tomorrow a.m. for our latest adventure with Ed.
My apologies for any inconvenience, but my brain isn't as young as it used to be, nor is it as flexible.
Bestest.
Cie
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Looking Determinedly on the Bright Side
I am looking determinedly on the bright side.
For example. The going away party started late, so by the time we got to the non-Mexican-food restaurant it was too full for a party of seven. We could not eat on the patio because someone had parked a cattle truck somewhere nearby and we all were agreed that the smell was somewhat less than appetizing. Besides, there's just something wrong about me ordering a steak and eating it under the eyes of a future steak. Yeah, they don't know. But STILL.
ANYWAY, we ended up going to one of the Mexican food restaurants. (NOT the one that gave me ohmigawdImayjustdie food poisoning, but Mexican food nonetheless. I sat at the far end of the table, in the farthest corner of the room away from the kitchen and ordered plain old American food. I did my very best not to look at or get downwind of my co-workers Mexican food. Thus I did not end up tossing my cookies during the meal and effectively ruining the going-away party. WOO HOO.
Example two is the launch of BLOOD SONG.
I am very freakin' proud of that book. We worked our asses off on it. As primary I am particularly assless (NOT--it grew back almost instantly, dammit). And in less than 24 hours after release there were pirate sites offering it.
In the morning there was only one that Cathy found. At 12:00 when Cathy checked, still only one (although the attorneys at the publisher were about to pounce on that). At 1:00 there were 15 new ones.
In one hour 15 more had put it up.
Okay, I could scream and rant like a lot of folks, because it's stealing, and it's stealing from me and DAMMIT I WORKED HARD ON THAT BOOK. BUT, I am determined to look on the bright side. So after deciding that it wasn't really feasible to try to hunt down each of the perpetrators and kick them in the N... (SHINS, I was going to say SHINS.) I decided to look at it this way. They liked the book well enough, and thought it was good enough, that they got right out there and moved in on it. In a perverse way it shows interest, and appreciation. Right? RIGHT? At least that's how I intend to take it -- all the while turning them over to the legal types who will kick them in the N. . . SHINS metaphorically.
SO, the book is out. It is being appreciated (hopefully mostly by those folks who pay for it legally and/or check it out of their local library). This is a good thing.
Now let me say for the record, IF a book isn't available in e-format and you are a die-hard e type, I'm willing to look the other way. But this is a brand-new release and the publisher was kind enough to make sure it was put out in every conceivable format they could come up with. SO, that's no excuse. And I don't go for the whole "test drive" theory either. You don't get to test-drive a movie by going to the theater and watching it then coming out and saying "Nah, didn't like it. Gimme my money back." Entertainment is inexpensive enough that you don't get to treat it like buying a freakin' car.
So you will have to pardon me a bit. For while I will insist on being flattered that they like it well enough to steal it. I will also be more than a little ticked that they're freakin' STEALING MY BOOK.
For example. The going away party started late, so by the time we got to the non-Mexican-food restaurant it was too full for a party of seven. We could not eat on the patio because someone had parked a cattle truck somewhere nearby and we all were agreed that the smell was somewhat less than appetizing. Besides, there's just something wrong about me ordering a steak and eating it under the eyes of a future steak. Yeah, they don't know. But STILL.
ANYWAY, we ended up going to one of the Mexican food restaurants. (NOT the one that gave me ohmigawdImayjustdie food poisoning, but Mexican food nonetheless. I sat at the far end of the table, in the farthest corner of the room away from the kitchen and ordered plain old American food. I did my very best not to look at or get downwind of my co-workers Mexican food. Thus I did not end up tossing my cookies during the meal and effectively ruining the going-away party. WOO HOO.
Example two is the launch of BLOOD SONG.
I am very freakin' proud of that book. We worked our asses off on it. As primary I am particularly assless (NOT--it grew back almost instantly, dammit). And in less than 24 hours after release there were pirate sites offering it.
In the morning there was only one that Cathy found. At 12:00 when Cathy checked, still only one (although the attorneys at the publisher were about to pounce on that). At 1:00 there were 15 new ones.
In one hour 15 more had put it up.
Okay, I could scream and rant like a lot of folks, because it's stealing, and it's stealing from me and DAMMIT I WORKED HARD ON THAT BOOK. BUT, I am determined to look on the bright side. So after deciding that it wasn't really feasible to try to hunt down each of the perpetrators and kick them in the N... (SHINS, I was going to say SHINS.) I decided to look at it this way. They liked the book well enough, and thought it was good enough, that they got right out there and moved in on it. In a perverse way it shows interest, and appreciation. Right? RIGHT? At least that's how I intend to take it -- all the while turning them over to the legal types who will kick them in the N. . . SHINS metaphorically.
SO, the book is out. It is being appreciated (hopefully mostly by those folks who pay for it legally and/or check it out of their local library). This is a good thing.
Now let me say for the record, IF a book isn't available in e-format and you are a die-hard e type, I'm willing to look the other way. But this is a brand-new release and the publisher was kind enough to make sure it was put out in every conceivable format they could come up with. SO, that's no excuse. And I don't go for the whole "test drive" theory either. You don't get to test-drive a movie by going to the theater and watching it then coming out and saying "Nah, didn't like it. Gimme my money back." Entertainment is inexpensive enough that you don't get to treat it like buying a freakin' car.
So you will have to pardon me a bit. For while I will insist on being flattered that they like it well enough to steal it. I will also be more than a little ticked that they're freakin' STEALING MY BOOK.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
LAUNCH DAY
GOOD MORNING!
Today is the official release date for Blood Song. I am seriously excited. The reviews have ben stellar, the buzz is good. My only worry is that there may not be copies on the shelves. SO, if you don't see it ASK FOR IT. Order it. Tell people about it. Because if people don't see it they may not know it's out there. And with the smaller trade paperback prints run and good preorders it's really possible you/they won't see it.
(Cie is now climbing off of her soap box).
Had a really good launch event at Bitten By Books (bittenbybooks.com) Lots of good questions and discussion.
Not much else to say. I've been working hard.
Today is the last day at work for a friend of mine. She got a terrific new job, but I will certainly miss her. The trick is we're taking her out to lunch today and most of the resaurants in town are Mexican restaurants. After my severe bout of food poisoning recently I can't even think about dealing with Mexican food. If I have to I'll go and just have nachos--chips and cheese only with no additions. But I hope we do something else. Because even the smell makes me nauseous now.
Today is the official release date for Blood Song. I am seriously excited. The reviews have ben stellar, the buzz is good. My only worry is that there may not be copies on the shelves. SO, if you don't see it ASK FOR IT. Order it. Tell people about it. Because if people don't see it they may not know it's out there. And with the smaller trade paperback prints run and good preorders it's really possible you/they won't see it.
(Cie is now climbing off of her soap box).
Had a really good launch event at Bitten By Books (bittenbybooks.com) Lots of good questions and discussion.
Not much else to say. I've been working hard.
Today is the last day at work for a friend of mine. She got a terrific new job, but I will certainly miss her. The trick is we're taking her out to lunch today and most of the resaurants in town are Mexican restaurants. After my severe bout of food poisoning recently I can't even think about dealing with Mexican food. If I have to I'll go and just have nachos--chips and cheese only with no additions. But I hope we do something else. Because even the smell makes me nauseous now.
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial
Okay, I'm back from a flying trip to Denver. (I mean it. I only had 24 hours and a full-single page to-do list.) I am proud to say I accomplished ALMOST everything. WOO HOOO!!!Today is going to be a busy day as well. Paperwork out the wazoo. SO, the serial is going to be more of a snack than a meal. I'll try to do better next week. :)
*****************************
They dickered. The kid wasn't bad at it, but she was up against a pro. Still, I'd been sitting around the shop for a while, and the type of folks who frequented this store weren't exactly my, ahem, type. (Pardon the pun.) So in the end agreement was reached, and in a completely unexpected (and I do mean completely unexpected) burst of generosity Ethel tossed in the printer and the books. Of course I didn't have anything to do with that. No. Absolutely not. I mean, Ethel is just a naturally generous type.
Unh hunh. You betcha. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.
In no time I was boxed up and lugged out to an ancient but serviceable blue VW Beetle.
If I'd had lungs, I would've cheered as the shop became a distant speck in the rear-view mirror.
*****************************
They dickered. The kid wasn't bad at it, but she was up against a pro. Still, I'd been sitting around the shop for a while, and the type of folks who frequented this store weren't exactly my, ahem, type. (Pardon the pun.) So in the end agreement was reached, and in a completely unexpected (and I do mean completely unexpected) burst of generosity Ethel tossed in the printer and the books. Of course I didn't have anything to do with that. No. Absolutely not. I mean, Ethel is just a naturally generous type.
Unh hunh. You betcha. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.
In no time I was boxed up and lugged out to an ancient but serviceable blue VW Beetle.
If I'd had lungs, I would've cheered as the shop became a distant speck in the rear-view mirror.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Rockin' Reviews
WOOO HOOOOO!!!! We are getting some seriously rockin' reviews for Blood Song. Let's hope that translates to hot sales, right out of the box.
I'm really excited about this book. I like the character a lot. Like the world. And I'm generally having a really good time. Cathy's had a lot of fun with her turn at primary in book 3. I can't wait for my turn to come again. That's always a good sign.
Finger is nearly normal again. I say nearly because it still looks like a Frankenfinger (scars now not stitches) but there's this one little spot that, if I poke it on something does the whole "hot bolt of lightning, ohshitdamnhell that hurts" thing. Which I, of course, do by accident about every-other-day. Sigh.
Okay, have to let the dog in, get ready for work, maybe exercise, clean up the house a bit and so forth. In other words, the day is already starting to get ahead of me.
I'm really excited about this book. I like the character a lot. Like the world. And I'm generally having a really good time. Cathy's had a lot of fun with her turn at primary in book 3. I can't wait for my turn to come again. That's always a good sign.
Finger is nearly normal again. I say nearly because it still looks like a Frankenfinger (scars now not stitches) but there's this one little spot that, if I poke it on something does the whole "hot bolt of lightning, ohshitdamnhell that hurts" thing. Which I, of course, do by accident about every-other-day. Sigh.
Okay, have to let the dog in, get ready for work, maybe exercise, clean up the house a bit and so forth. In other words, the day is already starting to get ahead of me.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Good Morning
Okay, the other story wrapped, so I wandered through my archives and came up with the following, which is the beginning of something I never finished. I figured it was as good a place to start as any. :)
Happy holiday weekend all.
************************
Ed – A Love Story
You probably know somebody who loves their car. Really loves it. Gave it a name; washes it once a week; waxes it by hand every sunny Saturday afternoon; and never misses a chance to make sure it is running perfectly. Yes, you probably know somebody who loves their car, or their stereo, or some other inanimate object.
You probably thought they were pathetic, an idiot.
And magic doesn’t exist.
Riiiiiiiiiiiight.
# # #
The bell rang, and I saw a small human female enter the shop. Petite and blonde, she was probably about sixteen, with milk-white skin and silver-gray eyes heavily outlined in black. She should have looked fragile, but the set to her jaw spoke of determination, and the tattoos and piercings hinted at a streak of defiance. Her low-cut jeans were a little loose, but it wasn’t a fashion statement. She’d missed a few meals. No surprise then, that she was shopping at a thrift store. This was the one. I knew it. A little electric surge rushed through my cables, making the screen flicker just a little.
The lighting here was bad, and every inch of the place was crammed full to bursting. Some of the stuff was valuable. Most of it was just junk. The last time any of it had been dusted was sometime during the Eisenhower era, and there was not enough room in the aisles to run a vacuum. Not good for me, of course, but Ethel, the owner didn’t care. What she knew about technology could be written on the head of a pin with room to spare for dancing angels. BUT Ethel knew people. Knew them well enough that she could tell you within a dime how much money was in their pockets and whether they’d be willing to part with it. She was almost never wrong. I saw her dark, button eyes narrow as she assessed the newcomer. Hefting her bulk from the stool behind the counter she lumbered forward, shoving her way through the overstuffed racks of clothing to approach the newcomer.
"How can I help you dear? Some vintage clothing maybe? A little jewelry? I have a couple of nice pins—"
"No thank you." The visitor looked around. "I was hoping you might have some books."
"Books?" Ethel stared at the girl as if she’d grown horns and a tail. I wanted to cheer. Books. The girl liked to read. Hallelujah! There might be hope for me yet.
"Yes, books. One of my friends said you had some books on writing." She sounded dubious. I couldn’t exactly blame her. But I knew the books existed. They’d come in at the same time I had, purchased wholesale from the estate sale of the crotchety old man who’d supplemented his meager retirement by writing articles on vacation destinations he’d never actually seen. Ralph had been a lonely man, quiet and reserved. A dreamer with a real joy for living. He loved animals, but was allergic to fur, dander, dust. So he lived alone with only a goldfish for company, talking to himself, to me, and to Goldie. The day after she went belly-up in her bowl, he went belly-up in his bath. Poor old man. I miss him.
"So you’re a writer." Ethel smiled, showing the sharp little white teeth behind lips painted a garish orange that clashed badly with her dark red dye job. She gave the girl a deceptively innocent glance. "I suppose you already have a computer."
The girl’s eyes narrowed, and her gaze followed Ethel’s gesture to where I sat.
If I had lungs, I’d have held my breath.
Happy holiday weekend all.
************************
Ed – A Love Story
You probably know somebody who loves their car. Really loves it. Gave it a name; washes it once a week; waxes it by hand every sunny Saturday afternoon; and never misses a chance to make sure it is running perfectly. Yes, you probably know somebody who loves their car, or their stereo, or some other inanimate object.
You probably thought they were pathetic, an idiot.
And magic doesn’t exist.
Riiiiiiiiiiiight.
# # #
The bell rang, and I saw a small human female enter the shop. Petite and blonde, she was probably about sixteen, with milk-white skin and silver-gray eyes heavily outlined in black. She should have looked fragile, but the set to her jaw spoke of determination, and the tattoos and piercings hinted at a streak of defiance. Her low-cut jeans were a little loose, but it wasn’t a fashion statement. She’d missed a few meals. No surprise then, that she was shopping at a thrift store. This was the one. I knew it. A little electric surge rushed through my cables, making the screen flicker just a little.
The lighting here was bad, and every inch of the place was crammed full to bursting. Some of the stuff was valuable. Most of it was just junk. The last time any of it had been dusted was sometime during the Eisenhower era, and there was not enough room in the aisles to run a vacuum. Not good for me, of course, but Ethel, the owner didn’t care. What she knew about technology could be written on the head of a pin with room to spare for dancing angels. BUT Ethel knew people. Knew them well enough that she could tell you within a dime how much money was in their pockets and whether they’d be willing to part with it. She was almost never wrong. I saw her dark, button eyes narrow as she assessed the newcomer. Hefting her bulk from the stool behind the counter she lumbered forward, shoving her way through the overstuffed racks of clothing to approach the newcomer.
"How can I help you dear? Some vintage clothing maybe? A little jewelry? I have a couple of nice pins—"
"No thank you." The visitor looked around. "I was hoping you might have some books."
"Books?" Ethel stared at the girl as if she’d grown horns and a tail. I wanted to cheer. Books. The girl liked to read. Hallelujah! There might be hope for me yet.
"Yes, books. One of my friends said you had some books on writing." She sounded dubious. I couldn’t exactly blame her. But I knew the books existed. They’d come in at the same time I had, purchased wholesale from the estate sale of the crotchety old man who’d supplemented his meager retirement by writing articles on vacation destinations he’d never actually seen. Ralph had been a lonely man, quiet and reserved. A dreamer with a real joy for living. He loved animals, but was allergic to fur, dander, dust. So he lived alone with only a goldfish for company, talking to himself, to me, and to Goldie. The day after she went belly-up in her bowl, he went belly-up in his bath. Poor old man. I miss him.
"So you’re a writer." Ethel smiled, showing the sharp little white teeth behind lips painted a garish orange that clashed badly with her dark red dye job. She gave the girl a deceptively innocent glance. "I suppose you already have a computer."
The girl’s eyes narrowed, and her gaze followed Ethel’s gesture to where I sat.
If I had lungs, I’d have held my breath.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Thanks.
Thanks to everybody who stopped by and read the past few days. I had a lot of fun posting this particular story. Heck, I had fun writing it. Tomorrow I'll need to come up with something new for y'all.Hmnnnnn... pondering... pondering.
Installment 4
4
The police arrived, with an ambulance. When the door opened instinct drove me to drag my feline form down the hall to hide behind boxes in the laundry room and die.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I woke hours later, naked and in agony. One side of my face felt bruised and swolen, and there was wicked bruising over my ribs.
It was hard pulling on the sweat pants and tee shirt I stole from the box of lost laundry on the shelf. I was sweating and swearing before I managed it. I had to rest before I could stagger upstairs.
A stranger let me use his cell phone to make a call. Not much later, I was headed to the hospital, then home.
# # #
The people at work keep whispering. I’ve overheard them talking about how much I’ve changed; checking out the bruises and bandages, then speculating as to just what happened to me on my vacation. The consensus is that I had a near-death experience that turned me into a better man. Which is pretty close to the truth when you come right down to it.
I make a point of calling and checking in with Bonnie’s parents about once a week. The doctor committed her to a psychiatric institution. Her father was understandably distressed, reluctantly confiding in me that she had some “unhealthy obsessions and delusions. Something to do with you . . . and a cat.” I hope they can help her. A part of me hates her for what she did to me. But if she hadn’t, I’d never have met Amber.
I see Amber nearly every day at the store where she works. We chat about pretty much anything and everything. She’s commiserated with me about my injuries. I’ve consoled her on the loss of her cat. It took a few weeks, but I eventually worked up the courage to ask her out.
Tomorrow night Amber and have our first date. I’m taking her out for sushi. For some reason I’ve been craving raw fish. Go figure.
The police arrived, with an ambulance. When the door opened instinct drove me to drag my feline form down the hall to hide behind boxes in the laundry room and die.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I woke hours later, naked and in agony. One side of my face felt bruised and swolen, and there was wicked bruising over my ribs.
It was hard pulling on the sweat pants and tee shirt I stole from the box of lost laundry on the shelf. I was sweating and swearing before I managed it. I had to rest before I could stagger upstairs.
A stranger let me use his cell phone to make a call. Not much later, I was headed to the hospital, then home.
# # #
The people at work keep whispering. I’ve overheard them talking about how much I’ve changed; checking out the bruises and bandages, then speculating as to just what happened to me on my vacation. The consensus is that I had a near-death experience that turned me into a better man. Which is pretty close to the truth when you come right down to it.
I make a point of calling and checking in with Bonnie’s parents about once a week. The doctor committed her to a psychiatric institution. Her father was understandably distressed, reluctantly confiding in me that she had some “unhealthy obsessions and delusions. Something to do with you . . . and a cat.” I hope they can help her. A part of me hates her for what she did to me. But if she hadn’t, I’d never have met Amber.
I see Amber nearly every day at the store where she works. We chat about pretty much anything and everything. She’s commiserated with me about my injuries. I’ve consoled her on the loss of her cat. It took a few weeks, but I eventually worked up the courage to ask her out.
Tomorrow night Amber and have our first date. I’m taking her out for sushi. For some reason I’ve been craving raw fish. Go figure.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Installment 3
He was there again on Friday.
Saturday was her day off. The snow had built up to a truly alarming level (from my point of view. Six inches of the white stuff may mean nothing to a human. In my new form it was a freakin’ blizzard.) Shuddering, I shunned the frost coated windows and curled up close to the space heater and watched her putter around the apartment before settling down on the bed with yarn and knitting needles. I swear I was tempted to go after that yarn. Instincts. Gotta love ‘em. But I controlled myself. She needed the scarf and mittens she was making. Her hands were chapped to the point of cracking.
She had almost finished the scarf by bedtime. Setting the needles and yarn onto the nightstand, she patted the bed beside her. I forced myself to be a gentleman, to wait until she’d snuggled beneath the covers before following. It wasn’t easy. I might be a cat physically. But my mind was human, and that mind wanted to see her naked, to run my hands over each and every one of those lush curves.
Dammit. Again with the no opposable thumbs.
###
I woke abruptly and totally. In the time I’d been living here I’d learned the sounds and smells native to my new home. I knew the scent and footfall of every resident of the building, from the frail old woman in 2A with her walker and her stinking, nasty-tempered little lapdog to the spoiled brat from 3B who entertained herself by running up and down the halls screaming at the top of her lungs.
No one from the building moved with such deliberate stealth. No one who belonged here smelled of whiskey and sour milk overlain with a heavy dose of cigarette smoke. He, because it was a he, stopped just outside the front door and I heard the delicate click of metal on metal.
I yowled, jumping onto Amber’s inert form, waking her rudely and totally. She yelped in shock and pain, I heard the front door of the apartment open, and quickly shut, the bolt of the lock snicking to.
Call 9-1-1. I wanted to shout, but all that emerged was a fierce feline yowl. Still, she got the message. Amber was grabbing for the phone on her nightstand when he burst through the bedroom door and knocked the phone from her hand before delivering a roundhouse punch to her jaw, knocking her back on the bed, and damned near knocking her unconscious.
I launched myself onto his back as he started to climb on top of her, clawing at his face, trying for his eyes. I bit hard at the bit of skin showing above his collar hot blood tasting copper in my mouth.
Shouting in pain, he grabbed for me, but I clung on with everything I had, digging claws in. He pried me off, tearing chunks of his flesh loose as he did and flung me against the wall with as much force as he had.
It hurt. God how it hurt. I tumbled to the floor. I knew my ribs were broken, it hurt to breathe. My head felt wrong. My ears were ringing; my vision was off, balance shot. I tasted my own blood But I dragged myself to my feet. He pinned her to the bed with one hand, his other pulling at the zipper of his jeans.
It took all my strength to drag the useless lower half of my body to where the phone had fallen to the floor. I couldn’t save her. Not in this form. There was only one hope. With the last of my strength I pressed 9-1-1 and send with my paw.
“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”
Opening my mouth I prayed, prayed that I’d be able to help her, be able to save the woman I’d come to love. “Help, there’s an intruder. He’s raping her. I can’t stop . . .”
I’d expected it to come out a feline yowl, but it didn’t. Words. Real words. I wanted to sob with relief.
“What the hell?!” A male bellow, and a size twelve work boot swung at my gut. I twisted, the movement hideously painful and bit at him, my teeth sinking uselessly into the thick denim of his jeans. My body was spasming, cramping. I couldn’t fight him. All I could do was scream.
But the distraction bought us time. Help was on the way. Amber was coming to herself. Grabbing a knitting needle from the bedside she screamed in rage and defiance, as she thrust it into the intruder’s back with all of her strength.
Saturday was her day off. The snow had built up to a truly alarming level (from my point of view. Six inches of the white stuff may mean nothing to a human. In my new form it was a freakin’ blizzard.) Shuddering, I shunned the frost coated windows and curled up close to the space heater and watched her putter around the apartment before settling down on the bed with yarn and knitting needles. I swear I was tempted to go after that yarn. Instincts. Gotta love ‘em. But I controlled myself. She needed the scarf and mittens she was making. Her hands were chapped to the point of cracking.
She had almost finished the scarf by bedtime. Setting the needles and yarn onto the nightstand, she patted the bed beside her. I forced myself to be a gentleman, to wait until she’d snuggled beneath the covers before following. It wasn’t easy. I might be a cat physically. But my mind was human, and that mind wanted to see her naked, to run my hands over each and every one of those lush curves.
Dammit. Again with the no opposable thumbs.
###
I woke abruptly and totally. In the time I’d been living here I’d learned the sounds and smells native to my new home. I knew the scent and footfall of every resident of the building, from the frail old woman in 2A with her walker and her stinking, nasty-tempered little lapdog to the spoiled brat from 3B who entertained herself by running up and down the halls screaming at the top of her lungs.
No one from the building moved with such deliberate stealth. No one who belonged here smelled of whiskey and sour milk overlain with a heavy dose of cigarette smoke. He, because it was a he, stopped just outside the front door and I heard the delicate click of metal on metal.
I yowled, jumping onto Amber’s inert form, waking her rudely and totally. She yelped in shock and pain, I heard the front door of the apartment open, and quickly shut, the bolt of the lock snicking to.
Call 9-1-1. I wanted to shout, but all that emerged was a fierce feline yowl. Still, she got the message. Amber was grabbing for the phone on her nightstand when he burst through the bedroom door and knocked the phone from her hand before delivering a roundhouse punch to her jaw, knocking her back on the bed, and damned near knocking her unconscious.
I launched myself onto his back as he started to climb on top of her, clawing at his face, trying for his eyes. I bit hard at the bit of skin showing above his collar hot blood tasting copper in my mouth.
Shouting in pain, he grabbed for me, but I clung on with everything I had, digging claws in. He pried me off, tearing chunks of his flesh loose as he did and flung me against the wall with as much force as he had.
It hurt. God how it hurt. I tumbled to the floor. I knew my ribs were broken, it hurt to breathe. My head felt wrong. My ears were ringing; my vision was off, balance shot. I tasted my own blood But I dragged myself to my feet. He pinned her to the bed with one hand, his other pulling at the zipper of his jeans.
It took all my strength to drag the useless lower half of my body to where the phone had fallen to the floor. I couldn’t save her. Not in this form. There was only one hope. With the last of my strength I pressed 9-1-1 and send with my paw.
“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”
Opening my mouth I prayed, prayed that I’d be able to help her, be able to save the woman I’d come to love. “Help, there’s an intruder. He’s raping her. I can’t stop . . .”
I’d expected it to come out a feline yowl, but it didn’t. Words. Real words. I wanted to sob with relief.
“What the hell?!” A male bellow, and a size twelve work boot swung at my gut. I twisted, the movement hideously painful and bit at him, my teeth sinking uselessly into the thick denim of his jeans. My body was spasming, cramping. I couldn’t fight him. All I could do was scream.
But the distraction bought us time. Help was on the way. Amber was coming to herself. Grabbing a knitting needle from the bedside she screamed in rage and defiance, as she thrust it into the intruder’s back with all of her strength.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Second Installment
Okay, because the finger still is a little sore I'm going to cut and paste the second installment of the story here rather than write a bunch. If I do this right, it will continue through Saturday. If not, I'll have to post something else. :) Yes, it's a change of plan. I do TRY to be flexible.
****************************
3
I learned a lot over the next few days.
Life is hard for animals. Opposable thumbs are important. With opposable thumbs you can open doors and windows, cans of food. You can cook, turn on things like the water faucet. Without them, you’re pretty damned helpless. Unless you can catch rats and mice.
I couldn’t. Even if I had been able to figure out how to catch them I wasn’t positive I’d be able to eat it, no matter how hungry I was. And I was hungry. Famished. And cold. The first night I’d managed to get back in to my house through the open window. But when the cleaning lady came in on Thursday she closed and locked it. I was out in the elements when the weather turned, fighting wild animals for any sort of shelter that could be found. Fighting—and losing badly.
Kids threw rocks at me. Most adults were no better.
Freezing to death was a real possibility as the temperature plummeted and snow blanketed the city. I might have human intelligence on my side. But I didn’t have the instincts and the survival skills of the wild dogs and alley cats.
I wound up in a rough neighborhood. By pure luck I managed to find a basement window that had been taped over with cardboard. With a combination of claws and brute strength I managed to tear enough of an opening to worm my way through. Exhausted from the effort and lack of food I collapsed atop the clothes dryer, sleeping to the sound of clothes tumbling and the comforting smell of fabric softener.
“And just what do you think you’re doing in here?”
A warm feminine voice woke me with a start and I panicked, diving for cover, backing into the space between the back of the clothes dryer and the wall.
“Easy buddy. Easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” The woman squatted down a little ways away, giving me room, but staying close enough to get a good look at me. Which gave me a chance to look her over as well.
She was pretty. Not beautiful. Her features were a little to harsh, her nose a bit to large for traditional beauty, her lips just a little too big for her heart-shaped face. And she weighed a bit more than is considered acceptable. But her skin was like porcelain, white and flawless, and her hair was so dark it was nearly as black as my fur. It fell in waves almost to her waist. Her eyes were midnight blue. Those eyes stared at me in sympathy.
“You look as if you’ve been through the wringer bud.”
You have no idea.
She laughed. “I swear, it’s almost as if you understand me.” She rose to her feet in a single, graceful movement. “Stay here. I’ll see if I can’t scrounge you up something to eat.” I stared after her, watching the soft sway of her hips in her faded jeans as she walked down the hall to the door of her basement apartment.
You are an angel.
I’ve never been a big fan of tuna, but I swear to you no steak or lobster I’ve ever eaten tasted better. I devoured every bite, licked the plate, and begged for more by giving her wide, pathetic eyes. It made her laugh, a warm, musical sound that dragged a purr from my throat before I even knew what I was doing.
That first night my bed was a bath towel still warm from the dryer. I slept, safe and warm, and dreamt of an angel with midnight blue eyes.
Day two I got lucky. Very lucky. The woman had just enough money on hand to buy a litter box, cat food, and to get me my shots. She did not have enough money to have me neutered. Halle-fricking-lujah. When that appointment date came around I was sooooooo not planning on being home. The name she gave the vet was “Mister,” after the cat in her favorite books.
Day three was Saturday. The first week of my vacation was gone, and there was no sign of my getting my old life back. I fretted, wondering what if. What if I never got my life back. What if I was stuck like this forever? Would anyone miss me? Elaine, my cleaning lady, would miss her checks. The folks at the office would bitch about the extra work. But would they miss me?
I didn’t know.
Which was pretty freaking sad.
I paced the apartment while my benefactress was off at her job, cashiering at the local food mart. With her hair pulled back, in her unflattering uniform she looked plain, ordinary. I realized with a start that she’d probably waited on me a dozen times or more and I’d never even noticed her.
The apartment was tiny, but clean. The furniture was worn, but well tended. Everything was in order. The bills were stacked neatly on top of a small, roll-top desk that was scarred from years of use. There were a lot of them, some of them with the tell-tale pink and red color that universally denotes past-due. Her name was Amber Scott, and her pay stub told me that she was barely making enough to survive. Barely enough, but she’d been willing to take in a starving stray, share her food and get him to the vet. Foolish, but good-hearted, and more appreciated than she could possibly know. I felt a rush of warmth for her, and wished there was something, anything, I could do. But of course, there wasn’t.
I hate feeling helpless; hated the humiliation of using a litter box; having to clean myself with my tongue. In fact, there was only one thing I didn’t hate about the situation: Amber.
Ironic, a woman I’d never have noticed in a million years in my previous life was now the center of my existence. Every evening I waited inside the main door, watching through the frosted window next to the door as she trudged home from the bus stop, hands jammed in her pockets, body hunched against the frigid wind that cut through her thin coat. Even from the distance I could tell she was weary from a hard day’s work.
I was at my usual post Thursday night when I saw him.
I told myself it was nothing; he wasn’t following her; wasn’t stalking her. But something about the way he hid himself in the shadows, his body language as he watched her, made my blood run cold. I yowled, scratching at the window. She looked up, smiled, and hurried her steps.
He didn’t follow.
But he watched.
****************************
3
I learned a lot over the next few days.
Life is hard for animals. Opposable thumbs are important. With opposable thumbs you can open doors and windows, cans of food. You can cook, turn on things like the water faucet. Without them, you’re pretty damned helpless. Unless you can catch rats and mice.
I couldn’t. Even if I had been able to figure out how to catch them I wasn’t positive I’d be able to eat it, no matter how hungry I was. And I was hungry. Famished. And cold. The first night I’d managed to get back in to my house through the open window. But when the cleaning lady came in on Thursday she closed and locked it. I was out in the elements when the weather turned, fighting wild animals for any sort of shelter that could be found. Fighting—and losing badly.
Kids threw rocks at me. Most adults were no better.
Freezing to death was a real possibility as the temperature plummeted and snow blanketed the city. I might have human intelligence on my side. But I didn’t have the instincts and the survival skills of the wild dogs and alley cats.
I wound up in a rough neighborhood. By pure luck I managed to find a basement window that had been taped over with cardboard. With a combination of claws and brute strength I managed to tear enough of an opening to worm my way through. Exhausted from the effort and lack of food I collapsed atop the clothes dryer, sleeping to the sound of clothes tumbling and the comforting smell of fabric softener.
“And just what do you think you’re doing in here?”
A warm feminine voice woke me with a start and I panicked, diving for cover, backing into the space between the back of the clothes dryer and the wall.
“Easy buddy. Easy. I’m not going to hurt you.” The woman squatted down a little ways away, giving me room, but staying close enough to get a good look at me. Which gave me a chance to look her over as well.
She was pretty. Not beautiful. Her features were a little to harsh, her nose a bit to large for traditional beauty, her lips just a little too big for her heart-shaped face. And she weighed a bit more than is considered acceptable. But her skin was like porcelain, white and flawless, and her hair was so dark it was nearly as black as my fur. It fell in waves almost to her waist. Her eyes were midnight blue. Those eyes stared at me in sympathy.
“You look as if you’ve been through the wringer bud.”
You have no idea.
She laughed. “I swear, it’s almost as if you understand me.” She rose to her feet in a single, graceful movement. “Stay here. I’ll see if I can’t scrounge you up something to eat.” I stared after her, watching the soft sway of her hips in her faded jeans as she walked down the hall to the door of her basement apartment.
You are an angel.
I’ve never been a big fan of tuna, but I swear to you no steak or lobster I’ve ever eaten tasted better. I devoured every bite, licked the plate, and begged for more by giving her wide, pathetic eyes. It made her laugh, a warm, musical sound that dragged a purr from my throat before I even knew what I was doing.
That first night my bed was a bath towel still warm from the dryer. I slept, safe and warm, and dreamt of an angel with midnight blue eyes.
Day two I got lucky. Very lucky. The woman had just enough money on hand to buy a litter box, cat food, and to get me my shots. She did not have enough money to have me neutered. Halle-fricking-lujah. When that appointment date came around I was sooooooo not planning on being home. The name she gave the vet was “Mister,” after the cat in her favorite books.
Day three was Saturday. The first week of my vacation was gone, and there was no sign of my getting my old life back. I fretted, wondering what if. What if I never got my life back. What if I was stuck like this forever? Would anyone miss me? Elaine, my cleaning lady, would miss her checks. The folks at the office would bitch about the extra work. But would they miss me?
I didn’t know.
Which was pretty freaking sad.
I paced the apartment while my benefactress was off at her job, cashiering at the local food mart. With her hair pulled back, in her unflattering uniform she looked plain, ordinary. I realized with a start that she’d probably waited on me a dozen times or more and I’d never even noticed her.
The apartment was tiny, but clean. The furniture was worn, but well tended. Everything was in order. The bills were stacked neatly on top of a small, roll-top desk that was scarred from years of use. There were a lot of them, some of them with the tell-tale pink and red color that universally denotes past-due. Her name was Amber Scott, and her pay stub told me that she was barely making enough to survive. Barely enough, but she’d been willing to take in a starving stray, share her food and get him to the vet. Foolish, but good-hearted, and more appreciated than she could possibly know. I felt a rush of warmth for her, and wished there was something, anything, I could do. But of course, there wasn’t.
I hate feeling helpless; hated the humiliation of using a litter box; having to clean myself with my tongue. In fact, there was only one thing I didn’t hate about the situation: Amber.
Ironic, a woman I’d never have noticed in a million years in my previous life was now the center of my existence. Every evening I waited inside the main door, watching through the frosted window next to the door as she trudged home from the bus stop, hands jammed in her pockets, body hunched against the frigid wind that cut through her thin coat. Even from the distance I could tell she was weary from a hard day’s work.
I was at my usual post Thursday night when I saw him.
I told myself it was nothing; he wasn’t following her; wasn’t stalking her. But something about the way he hid himself in the shadows, his body language as he watched her, made my blood run cold. I yowled, scratching at the window. She looked up, smiled, and hurried her steps.
He didn’t follow.
But he watched.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
First Installment of Breakfast Serial
Okay, here's the first section. Second section comes at the usual time on Saturday morning. Hope you enjoy it.
1
It was taking me a long time to fall asleep. I felt rotten. Really guilty and a little bit angry. I hadn’t wanted to break up with Bonnie. But what had started out as a fun, light-hearted romp had changed. She wanted more. Commitment—with a capital “C”. I couldn’t. Because while I liked her, enjoyed her company, she wasn’t the one.
It wasn’t that there was anything obviously wrong with her. She was intelligent, good-looking, from a good family. If I could’ve made myself love her I would’ve. But I couldn’t; and didn’t.
I lay on my back, staring at a crack in the ceiling, a soft autumn breeze blowing through the open bedroom window remembering the ugly expression on her face and the bitterness in her voice when she said:
You’ll pay for this. You don’t know what love is. Pure, unselfish love. All you care about is yourself. Well, you’ll pay until you learn. And if you don’t . . . well, then you’ll just pay.
Okay, that was creepy. Seriously, scary. Because she hadn’t looked even a little bit sane when she’d said it.
At times like this I wished I wasn’t such a movie buff. Visions of Glenn Close and cooked rabbit came unwillingly to mind.
To think it all started because I didn’t want to visit her folks on my vacation.
My hard-earned vacation. Two weeks, taken to recover from fifty weeks of overtime, stress, and office hell. The past two months had been particularly bad. I’d almost forgotten what my house and my bed looked like. I was seriously sleep deprived and in no mood to spend my time off doing anything I didn’t want. And I didn’t want to meet her relatives in person for the first time. That spoke of commitment. A commitment I wasn’t ready to make to Bonnie.
All I wanted was to do nothing, and do it vigorously. I’d warned my co-workers not to even try to reach me. I wouldn’t be checking e-mails; I was turning off the cell. Maybe I’d go to the beach. Maybe I’d just be a couch potato, lying prone and watching classic movies and only getting up to eat and go to the toilet.
If that’s selfish then, yeah. I guess I am. So sue me.
I rolled over, punched the pillow a couple of times and tried to settle in deeper into the mattress. I needed sleep damn it.
Rolling over was a mistake. Lying at this angle I could watch as the red lighted display on the digital clock ticked off the minutes to midnight with excruciating slowness.
Shit.
I rolled onto my back again. I was exhausted, but sleep apparently wasn’t an option. So, fine, I’d watch a movie—maybe play a couple of computer games or read a good book. Whatever.
Throwing back the covers I sat up and swung my legs off of the side of the bed.
Two things happened simultaneously. The grandfather clock in the hall started striking midnight; and the mother of all muscle cramps hit me.
I screamed. I couldn’t help it. Because it wasn’t just one muscle. It was all of them. My entire body pulled in on itself, contorting in the kind of pain that made a charlie horse pale in comparison.
I fell forward onto the floor, unable to move—barely able to catch enough breath to keep screaming, the thick plush of the carpet rough against the skin of my face.
I needed help.
It took every ounce of strength I had to drag myself across the floor and reach for the phone on the bed stand. My arm was stretched painfully toward the receiver when the next spasm hit. I curled into a fetal position, my body twitching and spasming uncontrollably, sweat and tears pouring down my face to drip onto the carpet.
Each spasm seemed to last an eternity, but the chiming of the clock told me only seconds were passing. The phone was inches away. It may as well have been miles. I gathered my strength for another push and froze, staring in horrified fascination at my hand and arm.
It was curling in on itself, the thumb and fingers shortening, pulling back. Hooked claws sprang from the blunted ends of what had once been my fingers. At the same time long, thick fur poured out of the individual pores like water flowing over the bare skin.
Terror chased away awareness of the pain. “What’s happening to me?” I tried to shout the words, and only managed an animal yowl. The kind you hear when a pair of tom cats are fighting in an alley.
The pain was fading, but I feared my sanity was fading with it.
The room loomed large, my perceptions changing along with my shape. I swung a paw at the cord connecting the phone to the wall. Hooking a claw around the thin wire, I dragged the heavy plastic instrument to the floor. The receiver bounced loose, the dial tone painfully loud to my sensitive ears. With exquisite care I fought to control my arm and its unfamiliar extension punching 9-1 and 1.
When the voice came on the line I wanted to weep with relief.
“9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?”
I tried to talk, to explain what had happened, knowing I would sound insane, and not caring a bit. Let them think me crazy. They’d send an ambulance. I needed an ambulance. I opened my mouth to speak, and all that came out was a piteous mewling.
She kept asking if there was anyone there, but try as I might, I couldn’t speak.
“A cat. It’s a goddamned cat.”
“Probably just knocked the phone off the hook. We’ll have to send somebody to the address to check it out anyway.”
“Whatever.”
She hung up the phone with a bang.
2
I stared at the receiver for a long time. Long enough for it to start buzzing, and then for it to stop. Long enough that the police arrived at my door in response to the 9-1-1.
I dashed downstairs just as the cop flashed his flashlight through the window beside the front door. The light pinned me like a spotlight. I could hear him clearly through the door. “Dispatch you’re right. It’s just a cat. We’ll check around the house, but so far it looks clear.”
NOOOOOOO! I yowled.
I followed them from window to window, trying to get their attention, to make them understand. Of course it was no use.
I was a cat.
A very male, long-haired, black cat.
In time, they left.
Disbelief was followed by despair. It was impossible. Incredible. But, impossible or not, my body was not my body any more.
They say cats have natural grace. I didn’t. I staggered and stumbled, trying to figure out how to make this foreign shape that housed my mind move.
I needed to fix this. . . . Whatever this was.
Bonnie’s words echoed through my mind, the malice in them almost palpable. Could she have done this to me? If it had been possible she would’ve. Hell hath no fury, and all that. Of course it wasn’t possible. Except, here I was.
I managed to make it up the stairs, but it wasn’t pretty. Then I jumped on the bed. If I didn’t think about it too hard, if I just let my body do the mechanics, I actually did better.
I needed to see Bonnie, try to figure out if this was her doing and, if it was, get her to undo it. Goal firmly in mind, I padded across the bed, leapt to the dresser, and climbed out the open bedroom window.
# # #
Bonnie’s apartment complex was only a mile or two from my house. An easy jog. For a human. Two miles is a long damned ways for an animal the size of a house cat. Oh, they can do it. But it takes time. By the time I got there I was tired, thirsty, and sore. Sore, because I still apparently wasn’t good enough at this cat thing to be climbing trees. Contrary to popular myth, cats do not always land on their feet. At least this one hadn’t. Ow.
I limped my way down the sidewalk, dogs barking furiously as I passed. The neighbor’s rottweiller charged the fence, growling and snapping. A board began working its way loose as he slammed himself against the wood, trying desperately to get at me.
I hurried on. That dog had frightened me as a full grown man. What he would do to a twelve pound cat if he caught it didn’t bear thinking about.
About a block from her building I saw the lights, the flashing red and white of the ambulance, along with the strobing blue and red police lights. No sirens, thank God. I wasn’t sure I could bear it. Everything was so loud. Bright, too. I could see into the deepest shadows, hear the small sounds of mice and insects scurrying into hiding at my passage. Smells I’d never even knew existed wafted to me on the night air, each perfectly distinct.
I froze in place, staring in horror as a pair of uniformed EMT’s wheeled a gurney out of Bonnie’s door. They moved with brisk efficiency, but didn’t hurry. There was apparently no need. She wasn’t going anywhere, couldn’t hurt them, even though she was shrieking and thrashing, fighting the restraints that held her fast—right up until she caught sight of me. In that instant she stilled. A slow, pleased smile crossed her face. She smiled, and as the ambulance doors were swinging closed I heard her croon in a weird, high-pitch voice, “here, kitty kitty.”
1
It was taking me a long time to fall asleep. I felt rotten. Really guilty and a little bit angry. I hadn’t wanted to break up with Bonnie. But what had started out as a fun, light-hearted romp had changed. She wanted more. Commitment—with a capital “C”. I couldn’t. Because while I liked her, enjoyed her company, she wasn’t the one.
It wasn’t that there was anything obviously wrong with her. She was intelligent, good-looking, from a good family. If I could’ve made myself love her I would’ve. But I couldn’t; and didn’t.
I lay on my back, staring at a crack in the ceiling, a soft autumn breeze blowing through the open bedroom window remembering the ugly expression on her face and the bitterness in her voice when she said:
You’ll pay for this. You don’t know what love is. Pure, unselfish love. All you care about is yourself. Well, you’ll pay until you learn. And if you don’t . . . well, then you’ll just pay.
Okay, that was creepy. Seriously, scary. Because she hadn’t looked even a little bit sane when she’d said it.
At times like this I wished I wasn’t such a movie buff. Visions of Glenn Close and cooked rabbit came unwillingly to mind.
To think it all started because I didn’t want to visit her folks on my vacation.
My hard-earned vacation. Two weeks, taken to recover from fifty weeks of overtime, stress, and office hell. The past two months had been particularly bad. I’d almost forgotten what my house and my bed looked like. I was seriously sleep deprived and in no mood to spend my time off doing anything I didn’t want. And I didn’t want to meet her relatives in person for the first time. That spoke of commitment. A commitment I wasn’t ready to make to Bonnie.
All I wanted was to do nothing, and do it vigorously. I’d warned my co-workers not to even try to reach me. I wouldn’t be checking e-mails; I was turning off the cell. Maybe I’d go to the beach. Maybe I’d just be a couch potato, lying prone and watching classic movies and only getting up to eat and go to the toilet.
If that’s selfish then, yeah. I guess I am. So sue me.
I rolled over, punched the pillow a couple of times and tried to settle in deeper into the mattress. I needed sleep damn it.
Rolling over was a mistake. Lying at this angle I could watch as the red lighted display on the digital clock ticked off the minutes to midnight with excruciating slowness.
Shit.
I rolled onto my back again. I was exhausted, but sleep apparently wasn’t an option. So, fine, I’d watch a movie—maybe play a couple of computer games or read a good book. Whatever.
Throwing back the covers I sat up and swung my legs off of the side of the bed.
Two things happened simultaneously. The grandfather clock in the hall started striking midnight; and the mother of all muscle cramps hit me.
I screamed. I couldn’t help it. Because it wasn’t just one muscle. It was all of them. My entire body pulled in on itself, contorting in the kind of pain that made a charlie horse pale in comparison.
I fell forward onto the floor, unable to move—barely able to catch enough breath to keep screaming, the thick plush of the carpet rough against the skin of my face.
I needed help.
It took every ounce of strength I had to drag myself across the floor and reach for the phone on the bed stand. My arm was stretched painfully toward the receiver when the next spasm hit. I curled into a fetal position, my body twitching and spasming uncontrollably, sweat and tears pouring down my face to drip onto the carpet.
Each spasm seemed to last an eternity, but the chiming of the clock told me only seconds were passing. The phone was inches away. It may as well have been miles. I gathered my strength for another push and froze, staring in horrified fascination at my hand and arm.
It was curling in on itself, the thumb and fingers shortening, pulling back. Hooked claws sprang from the blunted ends of what had once been my fingers. At the same time long, thick fur poured out of the individual pores like water flowing over the bare skin.
Terror chased away awareness of the pain. “What’s happening to me?” I tried to shout the words, and only managed an animal yowl. The kind you hear when a pair of tom cats are fighting in an alley.
The pain was fading, but I feared my sanity was fading with it.
The room loomed large, my perceptions changing along with my shape. I swung a paw at the cord connecting the phone to the wall. Hooking a claw around the thin wire, I dragged the heavy plastic instrument to the floor. The receiver bounced loose, the dial tone painfully loud to my sensitive ears. With exquisite care I fought to control my arm and its unfamiliar extension punching 9-1 and 1.
When the voice came on the line I wanted to weep with relief.
“9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?”
I tried to talk, to explain what had happened, knowing I would sound insane, and not caring a bit. Let them think me crazy. They’d send an ambulance. I needed an ambulance. I opened my mouth to speak, and all that came out was a piteous mewling.
She kept asking if there was anyone there, but try as I might, I couldn’t speak.
“A cat. It’s a goddamned cat.”
“Probably just knocked the phone off the hook. We’ll have to send somebody to the address to check it out anyway.”
“Whatever.”
She hung up the phone with a bang.
2
I stared at the receiver for a long time. Long enough for it to start buzzing, and then for it to stop. Long enough that the police arrived at my door in response to the 9-1-1.
I dashed downstairs just as the cop flashed his flashlight through the window beside the front door. The light pinned me like a spotlight. I could hear him clearly through the door. “Dispatch you’re right. It’s just a cat. We’ll check around the house, but so far it looks clear.”
NOOOOOOO! I yowled.
I followed them from window to window, trying to get their attention, to make them understand. Of course it was no use.
I was a cat.
A very male, long-haired, black cat.
In time, they left.
Disbelief was followed by despair. It was impossible. Incredible. But, impossible or not, my body was not my body any more.
They say cats have natural grace. I didn’t. I staggered and stumbled, trying to figure out how to make this foreign shape that housed my mind move.
I needed to fix this. . . . Whatever this was.
Bonnie’s words echoed through my mind, the malice in them almost palpable. Could she have done this to me? If it had been possible she would’ve. Hell hath no fury, and all that. Of course it wasn’t possible. Except, here I was.
I managed to make it up the stairs, but it wasn’t pretty. Then I jumped on the bed. If I didn’t think about it too hard, if I just let my body do the mechanics, I actually did better.
I needed to see Bonnie, try to figure out if this was her doing and, if it was, get her to undo it. Goal firmly in mind, I padded across the bed, leapt to the dresser, and climbed out the open bedroom window.
# # #
Bonnie’s apartment complex was only a mile or two from my house. An easy jog. For a human. Two miles is a long damned ways for an animal the size of a house cat. Oh, they can do it. But it takes time. By the time I got there I was tired, thirsty, and sore. Sore, because I still apparently wasn’t good enough at this cat thing to be climbing trees. Contrary to popular myth, cats do not always land on their feet. At least this one hadn’t. Ow.
I limped my way down the sidewalk, dogs barking furiously as I passed. The neighbor’s rottweiller charged the fence, growling and snapping. A board began working its way loose as he slammed himself against the wood, trying desperately to get at me.
I hurried on. That dog had frightened me as a full grown man. What he would do to a twelve pound cat if he caught it didn’t bear thinking about.
About a block from her building I saw the lights, the flashing red and white of the ambulance, along with the strobing blue and red police lights. No sirens, thank God. I wasn’t sure I could bear it. Everything was so loud. Bright, too. I could see into the deepest shadows, hear the small sounds of mice and insects scurrying into hiding at my passage. Smells I’d never even knew existed wafted to me on the night air, each perfectly distinct.
I froze in place, staring in horror as a pair of uniformed EMT’s wheeled a gurney out of Bonnie’s door. They moved with brisk efficiency, but didn’t hurry. There was apparently no need. She wasn’t going anywhere, couldn’t hurt them, even though she was shrieking and thrashing, fighting the restraints that held her fast—right up until she caught sight of me. In that instant she stilled. A slow, pleased smile crossed her face. She smiled, and as the ambulance doors were swinging closed I heard her croon in a weird, high-pitch voice, “here, kitty kitty.”
Monday, May 24, 2010
I'm Back
Okay, I'm back. The finger is healing. It's still painful, but it will be for a while.
Nox and the kittens have settled in and are happy and doing well from all reports.
I have a lead on a possible job in Denver. I have been taking the steps necessary to move forward in that direction. Keeping my fingers crossed is counterproductive, but I AM hopeful.
Our newest book, the first in the Blood Singer series (Blood Song) is shipped and getting terrific reviews. It is YA friendly, and we are very excited. It technically hits the shelves on June 8, but you may catch a glimpse of it sooner since it wasn't a hard release date.
The quilt is up at the Brenda Novak diabetes auction. It is gorgeous. Please bid early and often.
And because I feel like I haven't done enough with the Breakfast Serial lately (or any posting with the finger hurting like it is) I'm posting a short story tomorrow morning. Look for it here. :)
Oh, and if the Posse would, send me e-mails. I'm feeling neglected as an NSEO, and you wouldn't want me heading down the dark path because of that sort of thing would you? BWAH HA HA HA.
Nox and the kittens have settled in and are happy and doing well from all reports.
I have a lead on a possible job in Denver. I have been taking the steps necessary to move forward in that direction. Keeping my fingers crossed is counterproductive, but I AM hopeful.
Our newest book, the first in the Blood Singer series (Blood Song) is shipped and getting terrific reviews. It is YA friendly, and we are very excited. It technically hits the shelves on June 8, but you may catch a glimpse of it sooner since it wasn't a hard release date.
The quilt is up at the Brenda Novak diabetes auction. It is gorgeous. Please bid early and often.
And because I feel like I haven't done enough with the Breakfast Serial lately (or any posting with the finger hurting like it is) I'm posting a short story tomorrow morning. Look for it here. :)
Oh, and if the Posse would, send me e-mails. I'm feeling neglected as an NSEO, and you wouldn't want me heading down the dark path because of that sort of thing would you? BWAH HA HA HA.
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