Versatile Blogger Award

Renae over at The Siren’s Song chose me as a recipient to an award. This feels monumental.

Two good friends of mine forced me to get a blog back in 2009 but it’s only recently that I actually started participating in the blogosphere. 

It’s hard to put yourself out there, to share yourself even with the anonymity afforded to us by the internet. Even though we never see the faces of the people reading our work, they still judge us, we’re still being scrutinized. But I’m glad I’m no longer lurking on the shadowy edges of this community.

Everyone is so supportive: people rush to celebrate each other’s successes; they offer warm words when someone’s down; we share our experiences and learn from each other. This support is invaluable and atmosphere’s like these can’t be found in many places.

And today I feel like I’ve reached a rite of passage of some sort. My first award.

This award, like most others, has some rules.

1.Thank and link back to the person who gave you this award.
2. Share 7 things about yourself.
3. Pass the award along to 15 bloggers who you have recently discovered and who you think are fantastic for whatever reason! (In no particular order...)
4. Contact the bloggers you've picked and let them know about the award.

Thank you so much Renae, your support and thoughtfulness really mean a lot to me.

7 things about me:

1. I grew up as the eldest (just my mom, sister and I) but am technically a middle child, with two siblings (girl, boy) on each side with thirteen years between my older sister and I and thirteen years between my younger brother and I. (Kind of strange isn’t it?)

2. Despite my valiant efforts (and trust me there’s been many times I’ve tried) I’ve never had pig freeze.

3. If being a writer doesn’t work out I want to be a Music Supervisor.

4. Every person who’s been in my life and every significant moment I’ve experienced is marked with at least one song.

5. On my eleventh birthday I waited all day for an owl to deliver my acceptance letter to Hogwarts (I know I did a post about this a while back but I couldn’t resist).

6. My dreams will be realized if my series can impact one person the same way the Harry Potter series impacted me.

7. Ninety percent of the time the characters in my head feel more real to me than people I can touch.

To pay it forward:

(as a side note, I’d like to say that several of the ladies Renae passed this award on too I wish I could second the motion because I really do think they deserve it, Caitlin, Lydia, Amparo and Courtney)

1. Justine Dell

2. Natalie Whipple at Between Fact and Fiction

3. Creepy Query Girl

4. Aubrie at Flutey Words

5. Jennie Bailey at Garden Full of Lily

6. Natalie Bahm

7. Mayowa at Pens With Cojones

8. Shannon Whitney Messenger

9. Jen Daiker at Unedited

10. Christina Lee at Write-Brained

11. WritingNut at Writing In a Nutshell

12. Beth Revis at Writing It Out

13. Suzie at ~Writer Junkie ~

14. Lola Sharp at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword

15. Erica Mitchell-Spickard at Chapter by Chapter


UPDATE*


To clarify, Pig freeze is when you eat ice cream, a slushy, or basically anything really cold and get a pain in your head (you can get it in other places too). I would try to describe it better except I've never had the feeling myself. I do know that I'm the only person I've ever met who's never experienced pig freeze. I guess pig freeze is a Canadian term or something....

Dogs Find Things and Prove We Don't See Everything

The setting sun makes gold light dapple the leaves over my head, red berries glisten to my right, and the inlet stretches to my left. The path slicing through the forest is downtrodden but nearly silent. I sidestep the patches of mud from last night’s rain and the roots that push their way above ground.

I think I’m observing the scene fairly well. Leave it to my dog to prove me wrong.

My dog Tye stops suddenly to examine something on the ground. I try to urge him forward because the smallest scents attract a dog’s attention and, really, what do I care? Why should it matter to me what my dog finds interesting? I’m being thoughtful and fulfilling my duties of ownership by taking him on a walk.

He refuses to come so I’m forced to see what he’s so interested in (though I have yet to care he’s interested in anything at all).

Then I see the dead bird, its beak agape in some sort of horrified rictus.

I push my dog away only to prod the creature lightly with a stick myself. I know it is dead, heck, it looks like it has no insides at all and the black feathers are slick and clumpy, I just can’t help it.

I’m morbidly fascinated.

I call my friend (who also missed the carcass) over to look. She bemoans my cruelty, wishing I never called her over and tries to make me leave. I’m harder to get moving than my dog was.

The sequence of events makes me think of my manuscript for the remainder of our walk. I just can’t get the bird out of my head, or the fact that my writerly powers of observation failed me.

It makes me realize something. I’m probably not finding the, perhaps slightly hidden, dead things in my story. Not the dead characters. Not the dead plots. Not the dead words.

I think I’m catching everything; I’m looking everywhere but I’m much too close to the work to catch the lifeless pieces bringing my story down. My friend probably won’t notice either – she looks at the writing like it’s my book, she has background info on my characters (stuff a random reader wouldn’t be privileged too), and she’s as lost in the atmosphere as I am.

I need a dog; someone with a nose to sniff out all the problems, who is objective and unbiased enough to not overlook the small things for my sake. Because let’s face it simply praising our work does us no favors. It won’t get us to publication.

The only thing that will is brutal honesty. I need someone who isn’t afraid to get a little dirty, to be morbid and blatantly point out the dead stuff in my writing.

Again, I say it, I need a dog.

I should care because it’s my soul in a book and every soul has flaws. I should care because I want my book to reach its potential. I should care because I can only improve. I should care because it isn't enough to just do our writerly duties.

I should care because it matters.

I care.

Do you? 

Is there a ‘dog’ in your life who helps you find the dead stuff? 

Word Of The Day: Wikiphobia - fear of wikipedia, fear of the ability to allow anyone to edit things.

Episode 3: Finding Nemo

A Whale Eats Mickey Mouse And A Bloody Nougat: 

The Premeditated Adventures Of Melissa & Ramona.

For previous comics:
Title Page

Episode 1:Dementia Strikes Back

Episode 2: Gone With The Wand

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Episode 3: Finding Nemo

Figurines, pillowcases, a bedspread, stuffed animals, books and pencils all have something in common – aside from the obvious situational factor of being in Ramona’s room - everything is being held together with duct tape.

All of her worldly possessions were ruined when Melissa tried to use her wand. Big strips of the sticky silver stuff obscure half of Ariel’s face as they hold the stuffing inside of her; words are blotted out of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets; Ramona can only see an inch of Quasimodo’s legs.

It took Ramona ages to put everything back together but her things are all so ugly now she doesn't even care that they’re in one piece.

Melissa hasn’t apologized for ruining everything; she keeps saying a quick Reparo will fix the problem but Melissa has yet to master the spell. So for now everything is ruined. Melissa expects Ramona to wait. Melissa expects Ramona to be understanding and patient while she waits.

The worst aspect of the destruction is Melissa’s carelessness; in her single-minded approach she destroyed Ramona’s Disney World Map. Ramona tries so hard to put the glossy paper back together.

She feels like her heart’s been torn from her body, shredded into bleeding strips of muscle and tissue then duct-taped back together.

A week later and Ramona is past heart-broken, she’s past depression and denial. She’s angry. It isn’t the kind of angry where you let it tear your insides apart or when it’s so bad you need to break something. Ramona’s so angry the only solution is to orchestrate Melissa’s total mental deterioration.

Melissa needs to be reduced to a vegetative state, she needs to suffer. And be mindless while she suffers. Ramona has never felt revenge of this magnitude; the feeling is both terrifying and empowering. She feels like she can do anything. (Except put the Map back together.)

She feels like her suffering can be redeemed. She has a plan – a brilliant, horrible plan to play on Melissa’s fears.

Every piece of her scheme is in place: she has the code to Melissa’s house, she knows the interior design, and, most importantly, she has her costume.

Ramona sneaks over to Melissa’s house, punches in the four-digit code (cringing as the door buzzes in acceptance), and uses a flashlight to navigate to Melissa’s room. Her cover’s almost blown by Tye, Melissa’s dog, barking at her. She has to rip the costume off and soothe the dog for several minutes before proceeding.

But proceed she does.

Ramona steps over the clothes scattered across the expanse of Melissa’s room; she’s precariously balanced on the tips of her toes and refrains from breathing. This is extremely difficult considering the sheer weight of her attire.

Ramona comes to a stop at Melissa’s bedside, there’s a bit of drool seeping from Melissa’s mouth as she sleeps, mouth agape.

A creepy, evil smile crosses Ramona’s face and she knows the expression can compare to Melissa’s harshest glare. It’s that terrifying.

She looms over Melissa’s body and taps her shoulder.

Melissa, generally a light sleeper, shifts and her eyes flutter open. She groggily licks her lips, “Hi Nemo.”

A furrow mars Ramona’s brow at her best friend’s sleepy smile. The expression worsens as Melissa rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Without trying Melissa foils all her intricate planning. She wants to make Melissa’s sleep-deprived hallucinations real, to further muddle that ambiguous line of fantasy and reality, to make Melissa crack.

Not even five seconds pass before Ramona is in a full rage, it bubbles in her belly and she’s not quite sure what to do. Why does Melissa have to ruin everything?

And then Melissa’s eyes snap open. Her head whips towards Ramona and she takes a deep breath before letting out a window-smashing, horror-ridden, bloodcurdling scream.

The sound never seems to stop.

Ramona smiles as Melissa continues screaming, her skin deathly pale like she’s bearing witness to the most horrifying thing her imagination can conjure. Somewhere upstairs the dog starts barking (though the noise hardly competes).

Melissa grapples for something under her pillow. With a firm grip on her wand she turns the never-ending scream into two words, directed at Nemo-Ramona. “AVADA KEDAVRA!”

Melissa doesn’t wait to see if Nemo-Ramona crumples to the ground, her covers are over her head in a flash. (Except there’s no green flash because if Melissa can’t master a Reparo she certainly can’t master the death spell.)

The words “Avada Kedavra” are repeated over and over and over again as Melissa rocks back and forth beneath her covers.

Melissa is too far gone to hear Ramona’s deranged laughter as she saunters from the room.

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See more of Ramona's artwork. Scroll down to the second entry (the first one is this comic) she has a contest going on for two weeks. All you writers out there: Ramona is talented, if you win you could give her a description of your characters and she would draw them for you (it's what I plan on doing if I win.)


Word Of The Day: Wight - a human being; any living being, creature; a supernatural being like a witch or a sprite.  

Spiders, Fairies And Elves, Oh My!

Two nights ago it's the rain. Last night, well last night has no reason. I haven’t slept in two days, and yeah, maybe I’ve gone longer before (stupid insomnia) but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to sleep.

I almost fall asleep around nine this morning. Oblivion is so close, and my, is it ever gorgeous.

A spider scurries across my belly.  

I jump from the bed shaking my limbs and tear off my clothes with an urgency I can’t possibly convey.

Intent on finding the nasty creature, I rip my bed apart. There’s no stopping until its dead. I can’t be in my room knowing there’s a spider lurking somewhere, waiting to bite me.

There’s nothing. I shake out and meticulously check the seams of my clothes before putting them back on.

I go upstairs. I’m not on the couch for two minutes before it happens again. The spider.

And then, I see it. The drawstring on my sweatpants. Great, I’m so tired I’m hallucinating. I hate when this happens. My already overactive imagination goes haywire: there’s robbers and axe murderers; clothes turn to weird animals; shadows morph into horrific things; strange images flash across my eyes; things try to kill me.

It’s like a bad acid trip – except I’ve never started trying to peel off my own skin or anything like that. It’s yet to get so bad I vandalize myself. Instead, I hide under the covers like a good four-year-old.

Sometimes my imagination is too much for me. Every morbid or horrific thought of mine plays out, so vividly that they have to be real. It makes distinguishing reality and imagination tedious, the line seems so ambiguous. 

And that got me thinking (productively this time).

My best work is done when I’m in this exhausted state, when I stay up all day and night to work on a project and am so tired there’s no possible way to go on. Yet I do; the work must be crap since I'm barely conscious.

Then I get my marks back. An A. (This happened last week – I stayed up so long over a course of several days working furiously to do all the schoolwork I put off that I made myself physically ill.)

My best writing comes out of this weird half-there state where I start losing my mind. Maybe it’s the separation from my conscious mind. I can’t get in the way of what needs to be said or done. My words can’t interrupt my characters because I can’t possibly come up with one, even if I tried.

My imagination gets free reign, takes full control, and runs rampant.

I wish there was a way I could channel this mind-set without the negative side-effects (like believing I’m on fire or someone’s leaning over me with a knife). But I guess art is suffering.

And what would we writers be without our suffering, struggling image? (Aside from healthier of course)

The only weird thing (and no, hallucinations no longer count as weird) is when I look at what I've written; the words are foreign, new. I always find myself wondering who wrote it – it’s too good to have come from me.

Maybe it’s weird fairies or something – like those ones that made the Shoemakers shoes when he falls asleep. Wait, those are elves. Okay, so maybe elves are doing all the work for me (the stuff that I don’t think is utter crap anyway). I don’t know.

All I know is you can’t have them. (And I mean this in the nicest possible way. I’m sure you have your own weird creatures hopping around fixing things for you, like ninjas or bunnies or something. If you don’t, you should get some).

Where/when are you the most creative? Does your work ever surprise you? 


Word Of The Day: Fatuous: foolish or inane (especially in an unconscious manner); silly; unreal.  

Episode 2: Gone With The Wand

A Whale Eats Mickey Mouse And A Bloody Nougat: 

The Premeditated Adventures Of Melissa & Ramona.

Title Page

Episode 1:Dementia Strikes Back

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Episode 2: Gone With The Wand

Melissa readies herself, arms positioned at the perfect angle. She knows she has only two and a half months to prepare herself for Hogwarts; Melissa needs to possess a firm grasp on her magic by then, she may have missed out when she was eleven but she’ll show them. She has skills.

She deserves this.

Melissa’s practiced for this moment with useless, non-magical, branches for years.

Hazel eyes narrow, arm muscles are rigid; she concentrates her entire being on this task.

She brings the wand down, flicking her wrist in two elegant twists, twirling the wood with a finesse known to few.

The adrenaline courses through her veins so hard that it takes a moment to register. Nothing but sparks emerge. And the sparks hardly count – the manufacturer promised sparks.

Melissa shakes it off, sweeps her long hair over her shoulder and tries again. These things take time. Maybe it’s different than with a branch. The balance is off.

Yeah, that’s it, the balance is the problem.

Melissa tries again. And again. And again. And again.

“Ugh! I’m worse than Neville Longbottom before he found his nerve!” Melissa rants, kicking the air with her foot. She learned her lesson years ago – never kick solid objects, you’ll hurt yourself more than them, objects are heartless like that.

Melissa, too stubborn to give up just yet, considers her options. She wishes she knew how to meditate. Or lived in the movies, they always have some sort of training montage where at the end the Leading Lady is suddenly brilliant. Plus, that way, Melissa could fast-forward through the boring effort part.

Real life gets in the way of that idea.

In search of inspiration she goes to the basement to bug Ramona’s Older Brother – arguing with him always makes her synapses fire.

She creeps across the carpet and peers into his room. He’s playing the Wii.

Maybe the problem is trying to direct her magic at an inanimate object – it may work for Harry but Melissa never does things the normal way – maybe she needs an animated object as a focus. Maybe coming down to see Ramona’s Older Brother is exactly what she needs.

Melissa crouches, arm snaking around the door frame, and points the wand at his toque-covered head. She centers herself, slows her breathing and, this time, urges her heart to calm.

She picks the first charm that comes to mind - the severing charm - and reminds herself to swish and flick. “Diffindo!”

Ramona’s Older Brother’s fingers mash the buttons of his controller, his arm jerking side to side, his attention riveted on the TV.

Melissa scowls; his body is still perfectly intact.

Rage fills her, clouding her vision, and she jumps from behind the door. “Difindo! Diffindo! Diffindo!”

His eyes flit to her for a moment, “Go away. I’m busy.”

“DIFFINDO!” Melissa jerks her arm so wildly the wand flies from her grasp clattering against one of the swords hanging on his wall.

“Those are valuable! What are you doing? Ramona isn’t even here right now.” He asks clearly annoyed at the intrusion. He has to pause his game. “Why are you throwing a stick at my wall? Is this a new thing of yours?”

Melissa picks up the wand, her knuckles white around the shaft. “It’s.Not.A.Stick. It’s my wand.”

“Your what?”

“Never mind Older Brother! It doesn’t concern you.”

“You came into my room, threw it at my wall and yelled at me. I think it does.”

“And now I’m leaving.”

Back in the privacy of Ramona’s room, Melissa crumbles; a swirling miasma of disappointment, exhaustion and 

frustration.

Melissa throws her wand during her meltdown. It clatters against a shelf, knocking movies off so they smash against the floor. A Hunchback of Notre Dame figure crashes to the ground, shattering on impact. Half of 

Quasimodo’s face hits Melissa’s knee.

She stops to stare at the disfigured, half a face. An idea hits her like a semi truck – except it’s a lot less painful and a lot more like a light bulb illuminating over her head.

Melissa works at her task with a single-minded determination, she works and works, fingers systematically completing their tasks. She laughs her evil, I’ve-Outwitted-That-Inanimate-Object cackle.

Hours later

Finally finished Melissa surveys her work, twirling her wand between her fingers – she mastered the art somewhere between the bedspread and the scrapbook drawer.

“I knew Mom was right – practice does make perfect.”

Melissa pauses, putting a hold on admiring her handiwork, because she hears a distinctive set of footsteps coming up the stairs.

She clears her throat, waiting for the perfect moment. Melissa hears the creak of Ramona stepping on the landing.  “Diffindo!”

“Melissa?” Ramona steps into her room. She blinks hard once, as though she’s seeing things, before her eyes widen, horror marring her features.

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Word Of The Day: Exegsis - exposition, explanation; especially, an explanation or critical interpretation of a text.


PS. Next week the comic posting schedule will return to once a week, every Friday. 


See more of Ramona's artwork.

Episode 1: Dementia Strikes Back

A Whale Eats Mickey Mouse And A Bloody Nougat:

the premeditated adventures of Melissa & Ramona.

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Episode 1: Dementia Strikes Back

Ramona runs downstairs in her loose Mickey Mouse T-shirt and frayed jean shorts. She stops, stumbling from the abrupt change in speed, to stare at the pile of mail strewn across the linoleum.

She’s done this every morning since she ordered her custom made map from Disneyworld three weeks ago. Melissa made fun of her, for being so proactive, for ordering maps and books to plan her trip. Melissa’s too unorganized to appreciate the benefits of having an hourly itinerary.

Ramona flops onto the floor, she flips through the mail; her frustration grows with every bill and letter addressed to her parents. Even her brothers have mail. She almost gets excited – there’s a letter with her name on it – but then she realizes it’s just her acceptance letter to the animation program.

Whatever, who cares, it aint Disneyworld.

As Ramona resigns herself to yet another day of disappointment, she notices a large flap stuck in the golden mail slot. It’s a brown package, a package too large to fit through the door.

Oh. My. God. Is it? Maybe?

She opens the door and grabs both the brown paper package stuck in the mail slot as well as a second, slimmer, purple package on the stoop. They’re both addressed to her.

Ramona tears into the slimmer, prettier package first with an uncharacteristic animal ferocity. She cradles the four glossy maps (one for each park) in her hands, touching them with the same amazed reverence as she did with her signed photo of Prince Caspian.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of staring at them.

A Week Later.

“Ramona what’s this big brown package for?” her younger brother asks.

Ramona, purple smears under her eyes and greasy, limp hair falling across her forehead turns slowly. She croaks, “Did you say something?”

He rolls his eyes, “Never mind, go back to staring at your maps Gollum.”

The spell (Disney’s magic is far reaching) breaks. “I’m not like that - that...thing.”

“Okay. Give me the maps.” He reaches for the glossy paper; the tips of his fingers touch the map; for a moment, he feels insanely happy.

But Ramona jerks her arms, curling in on herself, protecting the maps. “Mine.”

“Told ya.” He shrugs and walks away, brushing the moment of utter joy aside.

After a while, Ramona considers that her brother may be right. With no looming threat of anyone stealing her pamphlets, she reluctantly moves towards the brown package.

The Harry Potter simulation kit she ordered for Melissa - to prove to her, once and for all, that prepping for these kinds of trips is better than just winging it – tumbles out. There’s a black robe with a generic Hogwarts crest, a wand, a Weasley Wizarding Wheezes Skiving Snack box, glasses, and a Hogwarts acceptance letter.

Harry Potter, enticing with its own brand of magic, compels her to test the merchandise first, just to see what it’s like. 

Melissa never needs to know.

Ramona dons the Wizarding attire leaving only the Skiving Snack box on the floor. She swishes the wand in an arc, giggling when sparks emerge.

A quick succession of knocks startle Ramona, she swirls the wand to point at the door.

“RAMONA! I know you’re there! I talked to Younger Brother; it’s time for an intervention. Open the door right now or I’ll light it on fire. I was in Girl Guides! You know I know how to start a fire. Don’t tempt me.”

If the words weren’t enough to identify the speaker, the way her booming voice transcended the barriers between them did. It’s like Melissa is screaming right into her ear; Ramona cringes.

“Actually, you know what? Tempt me. I want to burn your door. It could be funny.”

Ramona knows Melissa, for all her jests, is serious.

She whips the door open, “Don’t! Please, there’s no need for a violent intervention. I’m okay now.”

Ramona fidgets, her eyes shifting back to the maps every second breath. Melissa blinks, once, twice, four times.

Her expression goes blank.

“Melissa?”

“Harry...”

“I’m not-” Ramona’s voice gets caught in her throat, Melissa’s eyes are wild. She looks a bit like a zombie, foaming at the mouth, desperately craving a bit of brain.

Ramona’s last thought before she runs, screaming: I should have known better, Melissa always finds out.

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Title page: Introducing - A Whale Eats Mickey Mouse And A Bloody Nougat:the premeditated adventures of Melissa & Ramona.

See more of Ramona's art.

Word Of The Day: Crepuscular - relating to or resembling twilight; dim.