I Wish

I wish my life was different
I wish I was more successful
in every aspect of my life
I wish I didn't miss people
I wish they'd miss me
half as much as I miss them
I wish I was smarter
I wish I was more
of a people person
I wish I had more time
I wish I had a little
more to do with it
I wish I was happier
I wish I was brave enough to do
what it would take to make me hapier

I wish people didn't come to me
only when they had a problem
I wish I could take the advice
I give to everyone else

I wish I was wiser
I wish I was flirty

I wish I didn't feel so ungrateful
when wishing my life was better.

Devotion

So I have a problem with this blog.

Yes, I intended to post my work in the hopes that some bored agent would stumble across it and cry out "Eureka! I have found my dream author!" and whisk me away to publish my work. The problem is...what work do I have to post? I hate my poetry, though everyone else seems to love it, so why should I show off something I hate? Short stories are difficult, and I think mine are AWFUL, so how can I post those?

Since I was sixteen years old I have written about Ely, Faythe and Colin. I have written about their journey and their relationships. I've actually written a lot more than I left in the final product (little encounters that made my book too episodic.) In this time, I really haven't worked on anything else. I've expanded upon these wonderful characters. I've given them life and depth. What does one post while trying to become published when they don't care about anything else?

Mind you, I've worked on other parts of the series. I've started the trilogy that comes right after Colin's book (the last in the Blessed Ones trilogy), I've designed the characters and some plot points for the third trilogy and I've written some of, what will be, the tenth book which takes place some two hundred years after the first book. I care about this place and these people. Too much, in fact, to give up.

I just don't know what to do anymore...

Muse

That's right. I write god awful poetry too. Ode to my bipolar Muse.

Muse

A muse is like
A spirit guide
They are unseen
But at your side
When you need inspiration
Your muse will be there
And you’ll feel an idea
Come out of thin air
Well my muse is different
She’ll taunt me and she’ll tease
She can be with me one minute
Then she’s gone with the breeze
I’ll wrack my brain
For ideas during the day
Then when I’m ready for bed
She won’t go away
She’ll come and she’ll go
Like she hasn’t a care
I look for her influence
But she is nowhere
Then she’ll decide to come back
With inspiration galore
Bombarding me with ideas
More than ever before
She is brilliant and a tease
But here’s the hitch
I’m nothing without her
That sadistic bitch

Unexpected Destiny preview

Alright, I decided to post a brief snippet of my book which isn't telling of the story AT ALL. Please enjoy a sampling of my work. (If nothing else, this will help me get over my fear of people reading this book.)


“Come on you guys,” Nolan said, cheerily, “we’re men. We shouldn’t be afraid of the wind!” At that moment a blood curdling scream, once more accompanied by a gust of wind, flew through the cave. This time, the fire was doused. Nolan stifled a shriek. The last thing Ely saw before complete darkness was the boy jumping into Faythe’s arms.

The cave was pitch black and all that could be heard was the group breathing heavily and the storm crashing around outside. “I’ll get that,” someone whispered and, with a short sigh, the cave lit back up. They were once more crowded around the fire, but with an additional body. An old man with a long nose, sarcastically raised eyebrows and his long silver hair tied back sat down in between Faythe and Narnyo.

Ely cocked his head to one side. “Grandfather?”

“Sir Robert?” Colin nearly shrieked. “Is that really you?” The old man chuckled. Colin shook his head. “No, I saw you dead.” Colin began to laugh hysterically. “In fact, I helped bury you!” A sudden look of terror crossed Colin’s face. “Did I bury you alive?”

Sir Robert gave a loud, full laugh. “No my boy, I’m dead as a doornail.” For some reason Colin looked relieved. Ely wondered if Colin was merely glad he hadn’t buried the old man alive or if he hadn’t realized that this meant they were sitting with a ghost. Ely was speechless. “Come now, kit. Don’t you want to hug your old granddad?” He spread his arms wide open and Ely could not resist the comforting embrace of his grandfather. Dead or not.

Much to Ely’s surprise, Sir Robert felt, looked, smelled, and, for all intents and purposes, seemed to be alive. “You sure this isn’t trickery?” Nolan asked, afraid and skeptical. “I’ve met many of Beylidon’s necromancers and they could bring ‘em back good and life like.”

The old man examined the little boy. “Do I know you from somewhere child?” Nolan shook his head. “I never forget a face. Maybe when you were younger—” he squinted then smiled wide. “Or older!” The child’s eyes nearly bulged from his head. Ely was a little frightened as well. While he was used to his grandfather’s usual nuttiness, this was a little more than usual. “Vigo! I would recognize you anywhere you old goat!”

Nolan leaned away from the, seemingly, crazy old man. “I’m not Vigo.”

Sir Robert cocked an eyebrow. “You sure? Vigo the Protector?”

Narnyo stood up with excitement. Yes, he said, that was the last protector’s name! Vigo Prodst.

Sir Robert smiled. “Ah yes, Vigo died and came back as…” he leaned in to the boy, “what’s your name?”

“Nolan,” he answered. Sir Robert nodded. “So the Protector is actually someone who gets reborn constantly.”

Sir Robert smiled. “Yes, yes. Just like a phoenix,” he said, pointing over to Hera, who sat in a corner, preening. “The rest of us,” the old man continued, “end up here.” He gestured into the darkness of the cave.

“Where is here?” Colin asked, mimicking Sir Robert’s gesture.

“This is the gate to the realm of the dead,” he explained. “Normally we don’t come back over here, other than the occasional haunt, but, I heard the two of you talking and I just had to come see you.”

Ely couldn’t breathe, he was so stunned. He expected to wake up and have this just be a strange dream but he couldn’t. Sir Robert, his wonderful grandfather, was sitting not two feet from him after Ely had seen him killed. Suddenly the pain came rushing back to him and he had to keep from tearing up.

“Then the dead are who keep screaming?” Faythe asked, voice quivering.

“Oh, some of them come here claiming that this is unjust and…well,” Sir Robert laughed, “they’re big babies about it.” Sir Robert smiled charmingly, really seeing Faythe for the first time. “I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced,” he grabbed her hand and kissed it. “I am Sir Robert Miyosh, founder of the Riders for the People.”

“Co-founder,” Colin laughed, “there were three others.”

Sir Robert glared at Colin, a sight that Ely was familiar with since Colin and Sir Robert were always getting after one another. “Ah but we have met,” Faythe said, smiling, “at least through reputation. Your grandson and Colin have told me much about you. As has a dragon,” she paused. “And my brother.”

Sir Robert smiled. “Well, I am rather famous,” he chuckled.

“I am Faythe Sarant, of Pock.”

Sir Robert looked astonished. “Oh are you?” he examined her. “Yes, you do look very much like your grandmother.” Everyone went silent. “I knew her very well. I even watched her little girl once when she went to—” he paused, clearing his throat, “check on some things.” Ely could tell he was hiding something but didn’t feel it necessary to ask.

“How did you know her?” Faythe asked, quite amazed.

“We met, on our separate travels.” The group stared at the old Rider, not quite believing him. “Actually, that map,” he said, gesturing to the map that lay in Nolan’s lap, “forced us to meet.”

I am slowly going crazy 1-2-3-4-5-6 SWITCH!

I sent off another batch of queries today. The unpleasant taste of the envelopes' adhesive is still in my mouth. It's just one of those tastes you can't quite get rid of. I'm not certain if it's good or sad that I've become a pro at sending these things out. I mean, it's become like a ritual.

I go through lists of agents who cover fantasy novels, excluding only those who have already excluded something about me. I print out labels for both the envelopes I send and the SASE enclosed in them. Then I go through the arduous task of personalizing the queries and printing out things like the synopsis at home. My printer is...old, to put it kindly, so anything longer than ten pages I have to get printed at Kinko's. I go to Kinko's where they proceed to ask me the EXACT same questions they have before.

"What is this? A novel?"
"Are you sending the whole thing?"
"Why would they want only part? That's stupid."

I smile and talk to them while my insides are turning. I always have that moment while I'm listening to the whir of the printers. I wonder if one of these queries will be THE ONE. You know? Then my fears go one of two ways. One is the fear that no one will ever want my work and I'll be stuck making these trips to Kinko's forever. The other is the fear that someone will actually want to take me on as a client. That would mean sharing my work with a stranger and eventually putting it out there in the world. I know...this is what I'm working toward, but what if people don't like what they see?

Then I calm down and remember that there are so many AWFUL books out there so my book might be just terrible enough to join their ranks. I think that the minute I'm holding the warm copies and paying is when I feel calm again. There's something so calming about paper fresh from the printer. I say goodbye to the Kinko's employees and make my way to the mail bank where I pack my envelopes and ship them. Then, every time, I go to the comic book store to feel more at home.

I go through this process every time.

It's like I'm stuck in a loop.

The definition of insanity is performing the same task over and over again and expecting a different result. Is this insanity? Or would that just be applicable if I was sending queries to the same agents?

Either which way I'm going mad. MAD I TELL YOU!

Meaning (first short story)

Daniel lived in his mother’s house. He liked to tell women that he had his own apartment but that was just code for living in the same room he’d lived in since he was fourteen years old. It wasn’t that he was lazy and had no higher dreams. Nor was it because his mother was an invalid and he needed to be there. He just simply couldn’t get onto his feet. He tried to move out once a year before but that ended in his water being shut off because he’d neglected to pay the bill. He probably could have had it turned back on had he not gotten into a fist fight with the man he spoke to at the water department.

Daniel didn’t accept this as his lifelong home but he certainly didn’t see a need to move out yet. He figured that the universe had a plan for everything. If he couldn’t find an apartment and the only one he’d ever lived in had been a failure then that must have been some sort of sign. It had to mean something. Then again, maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Daniel was a writer. He liked to put it that way. His overly proud mother called him an author which made him cringe. He’d tell her that authors have been published and have authored books. He was only a writer. Although, there was something more romantic in the word “writer” that just wasn’t there in the word “author”. Author was a career. Being an author meant signing contracts and working on schedules. Mind you, being an author also meant earning money which he was not opposed to. Still, there was something romantic about being a writer. Being a writer meant being an artist. To say he was a writer gave him the vision of actually putting pen to paper in the fading light of an oil lantern. Many women also seemed to get the same image.

Daniel romanticized things. That was his job as a writer. Some writers wrote the truth as sad or happy as it actually was. Some writers wrote of only the bleak and the horrible, fully demonizing everything and everyone. Those writers liked to write so that no one was innocent, or if they were they didn’t stay so for very long. Some writers wrote of everything as wonderful and romantic. They could take an illness and death and make it have a greater meaning. That was what he did. He looked for the greater meaning in things all the time. He tried to find meaning in his father having a heart attack at the age of thirty-eight. He tried to find meaning in the reason his mother had worked the exact same receptionist job for the last twenty years. He tried to find the meaning in why he was being kept in the same place in his life. He usually managed to find some kind of meaning, although a lot of it required serious leaps of faith. It got him through. Some people had God. He had “meaning”.

Daniel stared at the reality of being a writer. His computer sat on his desk beneath his Tomb Raider posters and next to a sandwich his mother had made him before leaving for the store. His old dog was lying on his bed and barely lifted her head when he came into the room. It was far less romantic than he liked to envision it, but it was what he wanted. He wanted to be a writer, eventually an author. He wanted to sit down at his computer and write something meaningful. He wanted someone to read it and wonder what he meant by a certain phrase or what a characters action meant. He wanted to affect people’s lives. He wanted to know that his life meant something.

Daniel sat down at his desk, scratched his dog behind her ear and switched on his monitor. A blank document stared back at him. That annoying little blinking line matched his heartbeat measure for measure. It waited for him to type and he waited for the words to come. Sometimes they did. Most times they didn’t. He had a whole file in his computer filled with poetry and another filled with half written novels. With the novels he’d gotten a hundred pages in and forgotten why he started writing. His poetry was, to him, marginal at best. Everyone else enjoyed it though, so he took some comfort in that. This time, he had an idea of what he wanted to write.

Daniel had seen this girl at the coffee shop he’d been to earlier that day. She wasn’t an extraordinary beauty or something. She’d had mousy brown hair that fell into her eyes and she kept biting her lips nervously. She was short and chubby and hardly anyone else around had noticed her. But her wild eyes and scattered freckles had sparked something in him. He didn’t know how, but she’d given him a story. It was as though he was meant to be in there for those five minutes she’d bustled in and out. He was supposed to write about her.

Daniel began describing her look, making her slightly more attractive while still maintaining quirky parts of her he’d been drawn to. He wrote about her living in her parent’s house, but she was a college student so she had a reason. Both of her parents were alive and well and she had an older sister. He had always wanted a sibling. The girl hadn’t had a job for a year but she figured that, what with the shortage of jobs, she was meant to not have a job so that those with families could have them and be able to take care of their families. The girl didn’t care about any of that anyways. She wanted to be a writer. She wanted to write about the truth of life. The good and the bad. The beautiful and the distressing. The life and the death. She wanted to write about it all.

Daniel sighed at the girl’s ambition. He’d always thought that those who wanted to write about life had no real vision for their art. But this was a quirk about the girl he had to write about. He wrote the girl into her room where she had to remove her little orange tabby cat from her chair before she could sit down in front of her computer. She moved to begin typing and stopped.

Daniel stopped typing. That was it. That was all he could do for her. He could do no more for her than he could for himself. He’d already given her both parents, a sister and an education. What could he do for her? Give her something to write about? He didn’t even have that.

Daniel stood, poked his dog to make sure she was still alive, grabbed the empty plate from his desk and walked out of his room. There must have been a reason he’d written what he’d written. It had to mean something. Didn’t it?

"Get a blog!"

One year ago I accomplished something AMAZING. I finished my first novel!

I was so excited. I had my sister, my mother, two of my best friends and my grandparents read it and help me make it perfect (well...as close to perfect as I could since I ALWAYS find things to improve if I stare at something long enough.) Everyone who I talked to told me that the hard part was over. I had written it and was writing the next book in the trilogy. I knew not to believe them. Writing isn't the hard part. The hard part is getting an agent.

I have been trying DESPERATELY to get an agent so I can be published. Alright, so maybe I'm not desperate yet. I've been trying sporadically for the last year. Lately, every other agent I come across doesn't want to represent any unpublished authors. How does one get published if they haven't been published then?

So my sister suggested I submit short stories or some of my poetry to journals and the like, although that makes me more nervous than sending out my queries. Then my Aunt Lauria suggested I keep a blog because many authors these days have been discovered for their blogging. I replied that that would work...if I was interesting AT ALL!

Still, I took her advice and started this bloggy-doodad. So there it is, my eloquent first post. Here's to hoping I get better and/or more interesting.