Babies and Aliens

A couple of weeks ago, I was just hanging around with family in our living room. At the time, the movie E.T. was on.

Have I mentioned that I love 80s movies?

Anyway, I had this random memory come of this time I drew a picture of the aliens when I was a kid (because every youngish adult alive today has seen that movie, and don't pretend otherwise because I know you watched it voluntarily or were made to watch it at some point.)

I used to pretend I was an artist of sorts. Most of my work when I was very young was, for some reason, some slightly terrifying pictures of a baby standing in a crib. I can picture them exactly in my head, because I drew like a million of them, all the same, all on white construction paper, and mostly in red pen. Also, the baby sort of looked like E.T., but skinny. And terrifying. At this age, I also remember drawing a picture of the aliens from the movie near their ship.

Using the same sort of logic that led me to once bring a hushpuppy home as a pet, I deduced that the aliens were all named similarly, with initials only. The next part's a little fuzzy, but one of the aliens was E.T.'s brother, and was given either "A.B." or "B.A." as his name. I dearly hope it was the latter. I guess he would have been a biker alien.

I also once convinced my mom to let me watch Raiders of the Lost Ark on TV, despite the gruesome content at the beginning, because it "went nicely" with my "It's a Small World" read-along cassette. I think I was five.

All that, and I was in college before I figured out that Fievel and his family were Jewish mice, and that the beginning of An American Tail depicted a pogrom.

We all gotta start somewhere.

The Hushpuppy

When I was a little kid, like four or five, I very much wanted a puppy. I would play with the dog next door through our fence, and my parents had had a dog named Sam when I was a baby, but at the time, we didn't have any pets.

One night, we went out to eat at some barbecue restaurant or another. (There's a wealth of them here, trust me.) I'm not even sure we whether we were eating with friends or family. I don't know what I ate.

But I remember the hushpuppy.

I'm not sure at what point I was aware that the fried cornmeal was called that, but I knew the word, apparently. During the course of the meal, at which many hushpuppies were served and consumed, I managed to get attached to one. For some reason.

I decided that it was my puppy (being literal here) and declared to my mom that it was my pet and I was taking it home. Mom warned me it would rot before long. I kept it anyway. I must have had a balloon, because I had a balloon string to tie around the hushpuppy as a leash, and I took it home.

To keep it hidden from parental eyes, I stuck him under the edge of my bed, so happy to have a pet.

After that, I have no idea what happened. I went looking for the hushpuppy one day, and it had apparently run away. Or rotted, as my mom said. Or maybe fed a nice family of mice. I don't know. I don't even think I reacted.

And that is the not so tragic tale of the hushpuppy.

Bothering

Alright, so more excerpts and snark are coming this weekend.

This 30 days thing is actually working out okay for now. I have gotten loads more done than if I hadn't set this thing up. That said, I really would love to write full time.

I've also been reading Rework the past couple days, and it's been pretty inspiring. My brain feels like it's going overtime. I definitely haven't found any contentment with daytime TV lately, which does signal a personal change. I did try to bounce some ideas off my fiance last night. I was basically too tired to attempt a toss, but it's nice to know my brain wants to do stuff that late at night.

Yesterday I actually cut out this disgusting part of the book where the characters find that they have to go through an animal carcass that's roughly the size of an elephant. When I wrote the scene, quite a while back, the squelching and crunching just seemed like a great fit.

When I went to type it up, it just grossed me out. It was also tedious and boring, and relied on something gruesome to make it interesting. As that's the reason I don't like slasher flicks that much, that scene had to go.

I'm still a little afraid of this venture. I'm scared to fail, because why bother if most self-published (and even house-published) novels aren't wildly successful?

I bother because I have a story to tell, and I intend to do just that.

This story's been cooking for over ten years. I think it's funny when there are YA book trends, because you know only one or two of the probably twenty on the shelf are honest. Sometimes there are reprints (like the Vampire Diaries, which was first published in the early 90s, and reprinted because, well, Twilight.)

The most honest stories are the ones that you must tell. Not the ones that the market says are hot, but the story you cannot get your mind away from. Tell the story that's chasing you down.

In other words, bother.

Sentience: Part 4

After a long hiatus, here is the fourth part of Sentience. Enjoy.

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He had read the documents again, carefully. The address given where the machine resided. It was an apartment, a cheap one, in a care-worn part of the city. Trash here and there, the typical scenery, a contrast to the stark cleanliness, and far from the central city, and quiet.

5:00 A.M. The customer had called two hours ago, demanding the machine, sooner as opposed to the later option that brought more threats.

There was no one to threaten close to him. But the thought of disappearing, with no contact, no message, only a cold and indifferent notice to his faraway family, however estranged they were, got his attention. Marie the robot would have to be destroyed. Escape was the option afterwards. He'd disappear then.

The door to the apartment complex opened, the only movement for three blocks. He watched.

It was her.

Not her...it's not a human.

It would recognize him, and he may not have time to find the switch to turn it off before he did the job. He'd have to move fast. He had locks in the car only he could control.

He stepped out of the car and approached the machine. It was searching in a bag, and glanced up as he reached it. It didn't move.

"Are you stalking me now?" It took one step back. Frederick hit the button on the control in his hand that opened the passenger door of his car and grabbed the machine's arm, gripping it, caught off-guard for a moment. It was soft, without the quiet mechanic buzzing usually present in computers and appliances. The technology was impressive. He forgot this as she began to fight him, kicking at his legs and trying to beat him over the head with her free hand. She wasn't fast at all, or strong. He dragged it back to the car, tuning out the screaming and pushing its head against the door frame. It hadn't been able to fight him off.

"Ow!" He expected the clank of metal, not the convincing thunk of tissue. He shoved the convincing machine into the car and walked around to the driver side. He could hear the thing inside the car, beating on the windows and metal and plastic, and hoped it didn't break something. He got in himself, sighing.

It turned to look at him, its false eyes slightly glazed and its hand rubbing its scalp, a tremor in its motion, probably from some minor scrambling in its head. "What did you do that for?"
"I'm sorry."
"No you aren't. Let me out of here." It was panicking now.
"I'm sorry, but I can't." His needs were important. This thing was good, this machine. It sounded like it was close to tears. Maybe it didn't even know it was a machine, like in some Earth drama from years back.
"Why?"
"...I'll let you know later." He accelerated down the street, going slow. Being pulled over would not help the situation. His heart was racing.

What was he about to do to?

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That's all for today, but we'll be back soon with more, so tune in again.

Why Should I?

After all, we've got enough stuff to entertain ourselves.  Homer, Poe, Austen, Twain/Clemens, Tolkien, Lewis, King, Meyer, Rowling, Stoker, Shelley, Stevenson, Paolini, Verne...seriously, let me take a moment and just ask y'all to give a hand to all these entertainers of the page.  Seriously, guys.  You're all great.

All right, back to what I was saying.  Why should I want to even try writing a book when there's a lot out there to read?  I mean, there's tons I could entertain myself with, lots of stories and epics and tales that I have spent hours with.  Really, why bother?  I mean, come on, we've got Harry Potter to entertain us, or Percy Jackson and his buddies (I've actually never read it...).  I ask again, why bother with my stories?  Been there, done that?  Really?

No, not really.

I realized when I was younger, when my stories were first taking shape, that it didn't seem as if my part of the world had its own little epic.  Central Europe, or Scandinavia, or Britain tend to get their fair share of the settings available for the type of fiction.  And yeah, they're beautiful, Britain especially.  But, after 24 years of being here, I'm in love with the East Coast of the United States, the Southern portion especially.  (When I was quite young, my concept of the country consisted of North Carolina, Virginia, Georgia, Florida, and Michigan and Iowa somewhere up in the great beyond of the North.)  Where I live, we don't have bayous; we have marshes that turn into sounds and then become the Atlantic.  There's just something rough and lovely and old about where I live.  Go west, and you'll venture into the Blue Ridge and Great Smokey Mountains, a place that always feels slightly haunted by the spirits of the Cherokee that once wandered there so long ago, some of whom remain to this day, living in one of the most beautiful places on earth.

North Carolina is a different sort of place to live, and I've always known this.  That same beautiful rawness that I've seen my whole life is the thing that inspires me, literally.  At one time, I was going to set my books in West Virginia, but I've only been there once, for my senior trip.  (Snowshoe Mountain is a gorgeous place to ski, by the way.)  What a mistake that would have been.  West Virginia is a beautiful place, and I know some cool people from there, but there's nothing in the world quite like hearing someone speak and knowing within the first three words they say that they probably have the same area code as you do.

Okay, so back to why bother.  I bother because I think it's only fair that we get our own chance, we here on the East coast.  I think it's because we have marshes.  You know those old marsh lights?  I think some have called them will 'o the wisp...those little lights that lead people deep into the marsh...those are stories my friend, just waiting to happen.  I'll follow one, all right.  Oh, but I promise...good stories always lead you back out to where you wanted to go in the first place.

But they rarely leave you the same.