Thanks to everyone who chipped in to the Frogdonut Alliance Indiegogo campaign, we raised enough funds for me to drive over 1900 miles, going from
90 F to 40 F in three days. So, I’ll undoubtedly be blogging with a sniffle
next time, but I’ll be OUT of the horrendous Tucson oven and in beautiful,
cloudy Cheeseland! Presumably Richard Cheese hails from there, or is at least a
big tourism promoter.
No comment is necessary.
My brain has been crazed for a few weeks, organizing every
possible detail of the trip and forgetting to sleep, but they tell me the
swelling in the left temporal lobe definitely looks a little less puffy today,
so here I am. Most of my belongings are packed, the car is repaired and
spiffyclean, motel reservations are confirmed, and today I learned that the
very Santa-paradey store where I work is approving my job transfer, so I’ll
have cash coming in almost immediately. w00t!
Yes, dear, there IS a job opening! But try to take mine and I WILL cut a bitch.
I’ll be driving through territory unfamiliar to me. I
promise to stay off the goddamned moors, and not to feed the inmates. Sadly, I
won’t have time to stop for giant fiberglass chicken statues or the Hair Museum, but I promise to take pics along the way. Maybe I’ll document how many
items of clothing I’m forced to don as the trip progresses and the ambient
temperature drops. Departure date is a week from today!
For anyone reading my steampunk serial novel, I WILL resume
storytelling as soon as I’m settled in with my gorgeous, brilliant, lusty
fiance...well, as soon as I have time! For anyone who just wants steampunk
cereal, a word of advice: don’t add those cute little gear-and-sprocket beads
to your Lucky Charms. Not even encased in marshmallows. Too crunchy.
See you on the other side, Ray!
Happy Halloween, and may the full power of an unlicensed nuclear accelerator be with you!
Nearly Halloween! I’ve begun wearing my googly-eyed
skeleton earrings and grinning-pumpkin socks...nah, I lie: I wear those all
year. Still, the impending festivities have me giddy despite the stupendous and
continued misery of the Arizona Easy-Bake Oven weather. Spooky props and
pumpkin-spiced-meats in all the stores! Fake leaves decorating shelves of
corporate-sponsored sugary cholesterol builders! Trees and bulbs and...what the
utter FUCK who put their Yule in my Halloween?!
Just a couple of points here today. First, if you’re
participating in All Hallows' Read, check out these FREE, deliciously
morbid and creepifying posters by Sabrina Zbasnik! She makes new designs every
year, and they’re killer. Why not hang a few over the mantel with your dirty
socks, so that He Who Walks Behind the Gourds will leave extra candy for you
this year?
BOW DOWN TO YOUR DARK LORD, CHARLIE BROWN! (art from http://www.darkhallmansionstore.com/)
You DID remember to say your prayers to the Great Pumpkin, yes? He Who Must Not Be Seeded? No? Heathens. You’re all
heathens, and I wash my bloody smock of you.
The other item I wish to hold up for inspection like a
freshly severed spinal column is also the reason why I’m extra giddy about
Halloween this year: ROAD TRIP!!
You can view all the steps through the link above, but here's a general idea of my route.
Before the snows drench all of Cheeseland in cold curds,
I intend to journey from Tucson to Appleton to be with my soulmate. This is the
route I’m planning to take. There’s a slightly shorter one, but that travels
through more barren wastelands, which I dislike; IF anything should go wrong,
I’d rather it was within reach of a town than in the middle of East BFE. If any
of you know parts of this route well and have any tips, suggestions, etc,
please let me know: comment here, tweet at me, or email. Planning on stopping
overnight in La Junta, CO and West Des Moines; don’t want to have more than 12
hours drive time on any one day.
Our fundraising campaign, the Frogdonut Alliance,
still needs your help, and let me emphasize that even small contributions
really DO make a difference in this case! Five bucks? You just bought me lunch
on the road one day. Ten? Change of oil before I go. The more we can raise, the
better off we’ll begin our Cohabitation of Excellence! And please keep
spreading the word. Two weeks left to chip in!
THE COUNTDOWN TO SEXYTI--HALLOWEEN, I mean Halloween, HAS BEGUN! WOOOOO!
We are finally LIVE with our
fundraiser! The FROGDONUT ALLIANCE is up and running, and needs support at
every level! No, it’s not charity: we’re giving away cool perks aplenty, from
Scott’s awesome kitbash mech sculptures and my jewelry to our pro skillz at a
slight discount. Everything we raise goes toward moving me to Cheeseland, where
my fiance and I can collaborate in person, raise the dead, bring about the
zombie apocaly--- er. I mean, make cool
art together. Yeah.
We understand many of our friends
and family are in the same financial suck-it-in position as we are. But hey,
please pass on the link, and talk up the cause for us, huh? It’s good karma.
Plus, you’ll get to see us create wonderful weirdness together. It’s hella
better building skeleton props, freaky collages, and writing songs and stories
together when you’re RIGHT THERE to bounce ideas back and forth.
Not to mention, you really do
need more than two tentacles to perform the Elder God Raising Ceremony...
So please, spread the word! Chip
in a buck or five! Snigger at how goofy we look on camera! (No, we’re not
buying you popcorn to rewatch it again.)
More regular weirdness and
updates soon. Excuse me. Something’s banging on the walled-over well in the
basement again...have to go get some tuna from the store...
I’ve been wondering a great deal lately about the
intertwined concepts of time and happiness. I know folks who fill their
schedules with all kinds of activity, work or classes, things they believe they
need to do and, all too often, very
little they want to do. Until a few
months ago, I was in that rank. And believe me, it is pretty rank, that feeling of being trapped in your own life.
"And who told you to screw over all your contributors? Could it be, I don't know...SATAN?"
Aw, fuck, you say: don’t tell me she went and became born-again!
HELL NO. However, my outlook has changed. I’ve written very little this summer, partly due to
the lack of an air-conditioned, noncrowded environment (I am not one of those lucky souls who can
write on a bus, or really anywhere populated by loud, moving distractions), but
partly because I’ve been engrossed in other pursuits. This isn’t a bad thing.
In fact, this is the first time in my life that I haven’t sensed the Reaper
standing behind me, looking at his watch and then at my (lack of) personal
publication credits. I’ve done a little editing for others, some reading, some
art...and this is the first time in years I’ve been inspired to DO and to MAKE
stuff, and have done so. So, I haven’t been creatively idle, and I’m happy with
that, even though my writing has lagged.
Also, much of my time has been involved in dreaming and
planning for a future with my fiance. As he’s fantastically creative in ways I’ve
never considered before, he’s a marvelous inspiration; we toss ideas back and
forth like a deranged game of badminton every day. A great deal of time and
creative effort has gone into our Indiegogo campaign (which, fingers crossed,
launches later this week). So again: productive and enjoyable.
That’s nice, you say. Now what does that have to do with
the price of slaves in corporate America? Well...everything. The point is, I’m
not worried about meeting self-imposed deadlines anymore. I’ll get to it all.
And I’ll enjoy it. Even if I never
hit the bestseller lists, even if we have to scrounge for bill money, even if
we hold several odd jobs simultaneously. Because the majority of my and my
fiance’s time will be spent making art, exploring the world around us, and
enjoying each other. And this is what life should
be...for everyone.
Yeah, right, you say. That’s sweet and all. But some of
us have to live in the REAL WORLD.
What makes you think the real world has to be full of Mostly Shit You Don’t Want to Do But Have To?
But...job security! Retirement! Bills! Success!
The asshole of Success. Wait. Face of. I get those confused.
Yeah...fuck that. I’m not saying some of that isn’t
important. I’m saying people place far
too much emphasis on things they honestly hate. Whatever your spiritual
beliefs, we only have one shot at this
life. So many years between gaining some education and watching our bodies
decay. Decades are nothing. WHY ARE
YOU WASTING SO MUCH TIME DOING THINGS YOU DISLIKE? Why take classes you don’t
enjoy, just to “pad out” your schedule? Why toil at a job where your work isn’t
appreciated – or worse, is largely meaningless? Why fill up a day with so many
things that you have “no time” for stuff you actually enjoy? That’s madness. It’s
a madness that sucks us all in. The great lie of our society, for centuries,
has been driven like concrete pilings into the once-fertile swamps of our
imaginations: DO WORK YOU HATE BECAUSE OTHERWISE YOU WILL STARVE. (Variations:
Work Hard No Matter What Because if You Don’t You’ll Go to Hell; and If You Don’t
Have Tons of Money You’re a Failure.)
A truth, which I realize is far from new, but which only
hit me recently: it’s far better to be happy than wealthy. I barely get by. But
this is the happiest I’ve ever been. I’m able to let bullshit dealt by others
mostly slide off, whereas before I would’ve brooded for weeks. I’m impatient to
move, but not worried. It will happen, and soon. Oh sure, I’m in
love; the endorphins in my brain blah blah yakety schmackety blah blah. You
know what? That’s not what this newfound contentment is about. Love is
certainly part of that, but the overarching theme here, guys, is possibility. My misanthropy, twisted
imagination, and weirdness is of such a particular curve that I believed a “soulmate”
impossible for me. Yet we found each other, and within two days of talking,
knew we’d found The One. Odds were so against this, that it’s made me reevaluate
my beliefs about everything.
Except this. This still sucks ass.
It’s made me realize I don’t need to slave at anything I hate. I don’t need to get this creative project done like yesterday what the hell is wrong with you lazy cow. I have
perhaps 30 years of health left to me. Why
the fuck would I waste them doing things that don’t make me happy?
Why does anyone? What's that? You have REASONS, you say?
So, from a neophyte neoVictorian writer and happily
creative weirdo, take this and chew on it a good long while, peoples: Stop thinking you HAVE to do ANYTHING.
You ALWAYS have the option of not doing
it. Are there consequences? Sure. Now weigh those against how fucking
miserable you’re making yourself.
Is misery really the sane choice? How many years do you
have left? Forty, twenty, ten? Tomorrow?
Stop that shit right now. Do what makes you happy.
Wicked cool announcement coming soon about the fundraiser my
fiance and I have been determinedly crafting for several weeks! Yes, that’s
where I’ve been: mired in uncooperative WinDoze programs, discussing plans with
my love, and realizing my tonguetip still sticks out of my mouth when I’m
coloring intently.
I had hoped to have this campaign running a couple of weeks
ago...but things have repeatedly proven trickier than anticipated. However, we
WILL persevere! We will edit on the beaches! We will mix them in the towns! We
have nothing to pumpkin spice but PUMPKIN SPICE ITSELF!
Sabrina Zbasnik, author of scifi/fantasy/humor novels Terrafae and Dwarves in Space, has niftily invited me to participate in a
bloghop about my fiction. (Yes. Niftily. All this woman does is fucking nifty!)
I’ve chosen to focus on my steampunk work-in-progress. If anything you read
below intrigues you, please do hop over to my storyblog to read more!
Constructive criticism always welcomed.
1. What is the name of
your main character? Is she a fictional or historical person?
Holly Autumnson, last member of a formerly well-off merchant
family. Though she is clearly fictional, I’ve read a fair amount of Victorian
social history (American in particular) to get a feel for the society which has
shaped her existence before the story began. She’s been raised as a proper
young lady, although her father allowed considerably more scholarly education
than is typical for a Victorian girl, delving into the natural sciences,
languages, and philosophy where her peers would stop at arithmetic, grammar,
and crochet. At a bit over twenty years of age, she is well on her way to
spinsterhood, according to those peers...
2. When and where is
the story set?
In the fictional city of Concordia, State of Columbia Pacifica,
1899. Concordia stands where the prior city of Portland, Oregon, was wiped out
in a firestorm similar to the Great Quake and Fire in San Francisco. After a
deadly rain of meteorites over the earth, progress in steam engineering and
electricity has been superseded by technology based on “Dust” deposited in the Cataclysm.
So picture mutations, bizarre new engines of destruction, people trying to
impose Victorian social mores on a world gone freakish...oh, and flying kraken.
With pilots who bond with them.
No kraken, and the hats are wrong, but yeah, pretty much.
3. What should we know
about her?
Holly refuses to
conform to the placid, submissive role which polite society insists she
ought to assume. She doesn’t believe she’s inferior of mind to the men around
her. And she resents every attempt by allegedly well-meaning men to shield her
from the awful things happening. Horrible
things are going on below the civilized surface of Concordia, and although
Holly was dragged into it unwittingly, she’s now determined to expose the
truth.
4. What is the main
conflict? What messes up her life?
Her grief for the recent loss of her explorer-scientist
brother is interrupted by the brusque, enigmatic Dr Vonken, who barges into her
home and insists Holly is in danger from the founder and patron of Concordia,
Henry Villard. This sets off a series of frightening new experiences for her,
with powerful intrigues exposed, freakish abilities uncovered, and strange
friendships forged. Suddenly Holly sees that people she formerly regarded as
pillars of the community are more akin to monsters in the cellar, and no one is
what she thought they were...including Holly herself.
5. What is her
personal goal?
To learn everything she can about the power of the Dust: how
it’s used, how dangerous is truly is, why a benevolent politician would kill
for it...and what it’s done to her!
No no no. DUST, not Spice.
6. Is there a working
title for this novel and can we read more about it?
This will likely change, but at present the title is Autumnheart Stories, available for free
and in progress on my storyblog. Please
do read AND comment! I welcome feedback to improve successive drafts.
7. When can we expect
the book to be published?
Frog only knows. Summer heat trying to fry my laptop at home
(and repeatedly broiling my brain) has led to an hiatus in my writing and
posting chapters, but as soon as the whole tale is complete online (and yes, it
is all in my head), I’ll be revising,
editing, rewriting, and epublishing. My goal is to have it available in toto within a year.
Hmmm...whom to afflict next? *waves rubber voodoo snake
around threateningly*
I'm picking three, not five. Because it's fucking hot, goddammit. I tag Andy Click (of American Werechaun fame), from whom I’ve heard mutterings of sequeldom; Sophie Coulombeau, avid 18th century traveler and award-winning YA scribe; Marty Ketola,
screenwriter, podcaster, and fellow MSTie! Check back here for updates and
links to their responses.
Now...slogging into the heat... *takes two steps, melts into gooey wax*
Sorry for the long delay in posting...it’s been a chaotic
few weeks, with changes in the household, job changes, and other projects
taking precedence. But at last I give you: Fun with Dead People!
No, not quite THAT much fun. On the other hand, you don’t
have to worry about never being able to get the stench out of your Members Only
jacket.
During my college years, I lived in Montgomery, Alabama,
a city in the sweltering armpit of that fine regressive state. Though it does
have a good art museum and the Shakespeare Festival theatre – and AUM, my alma
mater – the coolest thing, by far, is the antebellum graveyard right in the
heart of the city, Oakwood Cemetery. Burials date from before the Civil War
through modern years, including the grave of Hank Williams, Sr., and a sobering
299 “unknown” soldiers from the south’s most bloody conflict. (I know. I
personally counted them.) Kind of strange to think of that many unidentifiable
bodies each given a headstone. I always wonder if their ghosts were pissed off
at the irony of being reburied with honors, but anonymously.
Among the park-sized grounds which sprawl over two very
full hillsides one may also discover a crowded, old-world-style Jewish burial
section; imposing mausoleums; and more Victorian sentimentality than you can
shake a mourning hair-ring at.
This was my absolute favorite hangout. I would frequently
take a book there to read for hours, or explore the seemingly endless
headstones on foot...the best way to “collect” a graveyard, as very little of
it will ever be accessible by hearse-roads. I preferred to roam among the
Victorian burials, as they often have the most elaborate memorials. Not for
nothing did Ambrose Bierce label mausoleums “the final and funniest folly of
the rich.” Certainly, the amount of marble, personalized statuary,
wrought-iron, and stained glass which make up whole neighborhoods of the
snootily deceased at Oakwood stagger the mind and the wallet. And yet I felt an
affinity for these crumbled husks, most of them forgotten in their family plots
as later generations married off and moved away. I’d scatter wildflower seeds,
take photos of the most elaborate (or most bizarre) statuary, and talk to them.
What? Yes, I enjoyed
being alone in a fine and private place, thank you. Hmf.
A Weeping Angel surveys her favorite magnolia tree
One March, a freak snowstorm blanketed the city...well,
okay. Drew a soft fluffy knit throw over the city and made it some cocoa. It
was only a couple of inches. But SNOW! In the DEEP SOUTH! While most denizens
ran around seeking firewood, s’mores, and condoms, I had one purpose: to see
how my beloved cemetery appeared in the clear air and whispering snowdrifts.
And it was stunning.
The wind had crafted beautiful paintwork with the snow
all night, and in the grey daylight, all was still, cool, and delicately iced.
Headstones bore caps like petit-fours. Wrought iron fencework boasted new
fretworking of purest white. Angels beseeched heaven for some gloves and
scarves, is it too much to ask since they have to keep watch over some schlep’s
grave forever until the acid rain
eats them, for crying out loud. Everywhere, snow coated trees, graves,
monuments...and the hillsides.
The really, startlingly steep hillsides, terminating in a ravine you’d have trouble
climbing back out of if you missed the footbridge, assuming you didn’t trip and
hit your head on one of the granite stones on your way down and solve the
problem of ever getting up the hill again. And on these scary-steep
hills...kids were sledding. I have no
idea who the hell in Montgomery, AL even had the prescience to own a sled, but there they were, dodging
graves, whooping and laughing. Despite my love of the overblown artifice of the
Victorians, this use of the graveyard
was the best I’ve ever seen.
Hey you dadgum kids! Keep it down up there! We're tryin' to discuss the War of Northern Aggression!
My advice to any of you within reach of an amazing cemetery,
be it on sacred grounds or secular forty-five-degree slopes: become familiar
with the place. Walk its paths, learn its names. Sow flowers, and take photos,
and know every weird statue and tragic lamb by heart. Make it yours.
That way, you’ll know exactly which spots to drag your
sled to when it snows. Not to mention the best escape routes when the dead claw
their way up to express their annoyance with all that dadgum laughing.
