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I’ve Become an Embarrassment – Who Knew?

25 Wednesday Jun 2014

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Not Now Mom, I'm Playing MInecraft

Not Now Mom, I’m Playing Minecraft

So apparently, I am a complete and utter embarrassment to my twelve-soon-to-be-thirteen year old daughter. Not that this wasn’t to be expected, but I was completely confused as to the source of the embarrassment. I mean, it’s not as if I were old, doddered around in a sweatshirt decorated with cats in a basket (no offense to my cat-loving friends) and black orthopedic shoes, went on and on about life before the invention of the telephone, and waxed poetic about the days when everyone learned cursive… okay, wait, I’ve done that last one… okay, waxed poetic about the days when there wasn’t an internet… oh damn, done that too… okay, how about: waxed poetic about the days when we read by candle light. (Hah! Got one!)

And it’s not as if my daughter’s friends don’t know that we’re a family of flag-waving Geeks. Come on. We’re third generation Geek in our household. And my daughter is normally proud to be a Geek. She games, she loves SF, she digs zombies, she groks Star Trek, she wants a Tardis for her bedroom and sleeps with a plushie Creeper. I thought, perhaps foolishly, that our Geekness might even make us one of the “cool” parents.

So when my daughter and her gamer-geek friend Isabella were in the living room playing Minecraft one afternoon and having a discussion about Thor and other comic book/movie heroes, I made a comment – a sort of throwaway comment — as I was passing through with a basket of laundry about how in my humble opinion, I thought Wolverine was hotter than Thor. I had no idea I was stepping on the proverbial adolescent land mine.

First, I got the look. If you’re a parent, you know the one. The “Oh. My. God. Mom! I can’t believe you said that out loud! And in front of my friend!” look. The look that makes you want to shrink down to the size of a baby dust mite and disappear under the oriental rug. Then, she actually got up, excused herself, and took me into the front hall, where she gave me the look again, followed by a terse, sotto voce , “Mo-o-om! Spoken through her teeth in such a way that makes a one syllable word into a three syllable word. Then she rolled her eyes, stomped back into the living room, flung herself dramatically onto the couch next to Isabella, and apologized on my behalf.

Apologized!

Wait, what?  So maybe they think Thor is hotter… he’s younger, after all.  That’s okay.  Me, I prefer dark-haired men, and anyway, aren’t I entitled to my opinion? So I was left standing in the front hall, holding a basket of dirty towels, looking puzzled and ashamed and quite unaware what exactly I had done wrong.

After Isabella left, I was read the riot act. Apparently it is the height of uncoolness for a mother to think that anyone is hot. And especially anyone in a movie. I’m too old, I was told, to be a fan girl.

Too old?  Too old?! Um, NOT!

Listen toots, I’ve been a “fan girl” since age 6, and I fell in love with Davey Jones of the Monkees. And I’ve been finding yummy men to crush on ever since. But I guess I won’t be sharing any of those crushes with Girl Child #1 anymore… at least, not when she’s with her “crew”. Heaven forbid I embarrass her!

Embarrassed your teen lately? Share your stories here. I’d like to feel like I’m not alone. And any ideas on revenge would be appreciated too!

Illegitimi noncarborundum!

So, an Astrophysicist, a Radio Show Host and a Biologist Walk Into a Bar…

16 Monday Jun 2014

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My Heroes

Can you name your top five childhood heroes? And Wonder Woman and Isis don’t count – I’m talking real, flesh and blood people, not comic book superheroes. I can name mine. In fact I can name quite a few more than five. And sadly, many of them have left us now.

I am keenly aware of this after the passing of Casey Kasem this past weekend. Mr. Kasem was a fixture of my youth. First, because he was the host of American Top 40, which I listened to loyally every week. I had a radio on my bike and I would ride around the neighborhood (whichever neighborhood that was – we moved frequently as I was an air Force brat) and listen to the show. Casey was always there, no matter where I was , a constant in a world where everything was always changing. I could always count on Casey to be my radio friend. And of course, he was the voice of Shaggy Rogers from my all-time favorite cartoon, Scooby Doo. I actually did a paper on him for some school assignment, about how he came from a family of immigrants, and following a dream he never let go of, made himself into a household name. But it wasn’t the fame that drove him. It was doing the thing he loved doing. For the budding writer that I was, that was a message that found a home in my heart.

Then there were the other heroes. Carl Sagan, who was taken from us way too soon.  Stephen Jay Gould, who made evolutionary biology fun.  Gerard K. O’Neill who taught me that we already had what we needed to make a home in space.  Roger Zelazny, who showed me that my weird story ideas were no more weird than his.  Isaac Asimov, who was just freaking brilliant in more ways than I can count… Yes, I was an odd child. My heroes were in large part scientists, writers, visionaries. People who saw the world that COULD be, not necessarily the world that was. People who looked beyond what everyone else saw.

Over the years I’ve watched them all fade away, and the world gets a little bit dimmer each time one of them passes.

But I refuse to be defined by loss. So it’s time to find new heroes. Time to find new visionaries, like Carl Sagan’s successor, Neil deGrasse Tyson, who is totally ROCKIN’ the new Cosmos series. But I gotta tell you, it’s been tough for me to suss them out. We are surrounded these days by celebrities but for me, celebs aren’t heroes. So I’ve been finding it hard to hear the voices I’m listening for over all the noise.

I spent a little time feeling old and sad this morning.  We all have those moments. But all of my heroes persevered in the face of defeat and I can do no less. So I’m now on mission to look deeper, search harder, and with renewed intent for the visionaries of today – the pioneers of our tomorrows. And I’ll be sure to post my new list when I’ve nailed down at least ten of them.  Neil is currently at the top of my list, followed in short order by Michio Kaku (seriously, what is it with me and physicists?), paleontologist Paul Sereno and fellow author Samantha Warren (who has more courage and drive than anyone else I know)…

Who were your childhood heroes? Why did they inspire you? How did they shape the you of today? And who are you finding now to inspire you? Share them here so we can all be inspired! Thanks!

Illegitimi non carborundum!

“Is That Even a Thing?” (How To Talk Young Even if You’re Not!)

12 Thursday Jun 2014

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A little Thursday funny for you, care of one of my favorite bloggers, Little Miss Menopause (aka, Stephanie Lewis). ‘Cuz that’s just how I roll! (Did I get that right, Stephanie?)

Little Miss Flawed's avatarOnce Upon Your Prime

photo-379“Oh, it’s definitely a thing.”  The first time I heard that, I thought Tiffany, my flirtatious neighbor, was talking about an affair she started with our mailman. Seemed plausible – –  a while ago she confessed she had “a thing” for him ever since he delivered a large package.  Turns out casually remarking,”it’s a thing” has nothing to do with attraction or sex.  It’s a way of reporting that something is now extremely popular – – a big fad.  In this case, she was confirming that you can order crazy sounding drinks off  a secret menu at Starbucks.     However if it’s such a secret, how can it be so widespread??

“No,”  I retorted to 45-year old Tiffany, who obviously thought she was so young and “with it,” she even changed her name from Theresa.  “You can DO your OWN thing.  Or drink Coca Cola.  It’s the REAL thing.  …

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A Mutinous Morning – Or How I Was Forced to Walk the Plank

06 Friday Jun 2014

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Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson

Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson

Nelson and I had words this morning. Well, okay, I mostly listened while he barked his dang fool head off. And if you’ve never been on the receiving end of a poodle scolding, you have no idea how ear-bleeding it can be. You’d think miniature poodles, being smaller dogs, would have a yappy little bark. But you’d be wrong. They’re exceptionally loud and pitched at this absolutely piercing tone. And the Admiral (normally known as just Nelson, unless he’s in a mood) is a rather insistent communicator, particularly when it’s time for his rum (and by rum, I mean his morning’s ration of 2 dried sweet potato fries – I don’t actually give the Admiral spirits :)). I admit I was a little slow after turning off the alarm. It was, after all, o-stupid thirty in the morning and I was still trying to find two socks that matched and, oh yeah, where the *bleep* did my glasses get to after they fell off the bed last night?

So we had words. I first asked that he use his indoor voice. Didn’t work. Then I made him sit, hoping following one command would lead to him following another – you know, like, “no bark”. And indeed he sat, then got up again and started in on me some more, going on about how inappropriate it was for a mere Lieutenant to be giving commands to an Admiral. That’s when I snapped (followed quickly by a popping sound as my eardrums burst). Alas, I had forgotten that snapping my fingers, which I’ve always had trouble with anyway, is a hand signal for him to stand on his hind legs and walk in a circle. Which he did, then became even that much more insistent for his rum. He’d done a trick, after all, he informed me LOUDLY. The treat should be forthcoming. Pronto.

Meanwhile, around us, the rest of the family slumbered on in their hammocks behind their closed cabin doors. Or at least pretended to slumber because unless they’re dead, there’s no way they could have slept through the Admiral’s tirade.

So I did what any seaman would do in the face of irreconcilable differences with their captain. I became insubordinate. I refused to give him his share of the rum. He accused me of mutiny. I told him I was going to rouse the rest of the crew and we were going to make him walk the plank.

I won’t repeat his reply – not in polite company and besides the shrillness of it would make YOUR ears bleed. But suffice it to say I wound up on the plank (and by plank, I mean in my car on the Kennedy at rush hour, which is the same thing, right up to and including the man-eating sharks), and the Admiral managed to get the somnambulistic 12-year old bo’sun to give him his rum after I’d gone into the drink (and by gone into the drink, I mean gone to work).

There is no justice on this ship. I’ll probably have to spend the weekend swabbing the deck. Oh, wait, I’d have to do that anyway, no one else cleans the floors around here. And I say again. There is no justice on this ship. Grumble, grumble, grumble, mutiny, mutiny, mutiny.

Hope you’re all having a better Friday! And if you don’t hear from me over the weekend, it probably means I’ve gotten myself locked in the brig.

Illigetimi non carborundum!

A Pirate Turns 40…ish

23 Friday May 2014

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Geena Cutthroat Blog

So according to certain friends of mine, since my birthday this past March I am in a full-blown mid-life crisis.  I’ve colored my hair (again), considered getting contact lens (again), pinned pictures of dresses on Pinterest that only someone built like Audrey Hepburn would look good in, and thought about running away to join either a group of itinerant jugglers (a la Lord Valentine’s Castle) or a pirate crew.  And because I’m built like my short, round, buxom Irish ancestors, I’m not sure I could pull off either costume.  *sigh*

It’s been hard coming to terms with the age I’m becoming.  I don’t feel any older (well, okay, my knees do, but they’re considerably older than the rest of me).  I don’t think I act any older.  I mean, just this morning at work I tried to use my Harry Potter wand (a birthday present from my staff) in our morning meeting to make the Director of Creative Services be quiet.  What self-respecting grown-up would do that?  (And no, it didn’t work.  I think I need to work on my pronunciation of “Silencio”.)  And I still think it’s more fun to play with the boxes than what comes inside them.  Especially if they’re really big boxes, like from major appliances.

And yet I have all the responsibilities of a “grown-up”.  I have a spouse, an evil day job where I manage a staff, a household to maintain, errands to run, my 12-year old to grow, feed and water, and oh yeah, novels to write.  Sometimes it feels so overwhelming and mind-numbingly tedious, I want to press the reset button like I do on my MP3 player when it freezes up and start over.  Or have someone hit me over the head so I fall into a fugue state like Jobeth Williams in American Dreamer and become someone completely different – and infinitely more exciting.

Naturally, neither of those things is really an option (unless one of you volunteers to send me on an all-expenses paid trip to Paris, arrange for a taxi ride around the city, hire a pick pocket to steal my purse in front of the Eiffel Tower and have me knocked off my feet by the car of a passing dignitary…).

So I’m left balancing a whole bunch of grown-up stuff when all a girl really wants to do is be a pirate and have fun.  And short of donning a pair of  thigh high boots, buying a sail boat and a hoisting the Jolly Roger flag on Lake Michigan, I think I’m going to have to find a way to add more zing to my life in smaller ways.  Like maybe taking fencing lessons or planning a Girl’s Weekend get-away to Galena.  And practicing my “swish and flick” so that the next time I use my Harry Potter wand in a staff meeting, I actually manage to cast the spell I intended.

How do you shake up your routine to keep things fresh and fun while running on your life’s hamster wheel?  I’d love to hear your stories.  And I’ll let you know about the thigh high boots.  The 12-year old will laugh and roll her eyes at me, but good old What’s-His-Name might approve of the investment.

Illegitimi non carborundum!

 

 

An Independent Woman

08 Thursday May 2014

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It is an amazing time to be a writer. When I was young(er), the publishing world had me by the throat. Find your story (but make sure it fit into the neatly defined categories set forth by the books sellers of the world). Then write it and ship it off to every literary agent worth their salt (but ONLY in the city of New York because they were the only ones that were said to “count”). Then pray that one of them would find you in their giant slush pile and agree to take you on. Then pray that he/she didn’t screw you in your contract. Then pray some more that said agent actually believed in your work enough to sell your work to a publisher over sparkling water and poached salmon. And finally, you got the word that you’d sold something… and started sacrificing teddy bears and Cheetos to the Book Store Gods to ensure your book sold enough to warrant getting a contract for a second book. And so on and so on. The only part that was in your control was the writing.

Today, with the rise of indie publishing, it’s a completely different world. Now, if you choose to go the path of an indie writer, your future is really in your own hands. And while this can be incredibly intimidating (okay, terrifying), it is also extremely liberating. A friend of mine recently published an AWESOME short in a genre that didn’t even exist ten years ago (zombie westerns). Check it out here: http://www.amazon.com/Massacre-Lonesome-Ridge-Samantha-Warren-ebook/dp/B00IRJ4MBY/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399576383&sr=1-1&keywords=massacre+at+lonesome+ridge
Not only is the genre startlingly non-traditional, but it isn’t a traditional “novel” length piece either. Ten years ago, even five years ago, no traditional publishing house would have considered it. Heck, they probably still wouldn’t. But Ms. Warren is not only a brilliant entrepreneur, she’s an amazing writer. She makes it work. And that, my friends, is the truly amazing thing about this brave new world we find ourselves in as writers. We can forge our own path. Create our own genres. Live our dreams on OUR terms.

In June I’ll be publishing my first novel as an indie author. I’m equal parts terrified and thrilled. But the best part is that I don’t need anyone but me to make this happen. Well… okay, me and a bunch of supportive friends, family members, beta readers…

I’ve known my whole life what my special gift was. Now I can use it – without any “authority” telling me it’s not good enough. And that is the most amazing thing of all.

Illegitimi non carborundum!

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Don’t You Hate it When You’re Wrong?!

01 Thursday May 2014

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So I’ve recently been more diligent about reading all the blogs about writing I follow.  Some are inspirational, some keep me motivated, some are just fun.  Then there are the ones that I actually learn from.  And sometimes that learning is PAINFUL.

I don’t know about you, but I HATE IT when I’m wrong.  I’ve been writing for a long time.  I’ve come a long way from those callow days of my youth when I thought my writing was perfect and editors would swoon reading it.  I’ve made lots of mistakes, learned to identify them, learned to fix them – mostly with the help of other sainted writers who have been gracious enough to give back to the writing community by helping others learn, but a lot on my own (proving, I suppose, that if you bang your head against your desk long enough something positive may come out of it).  So when I read Kristen Lamb’s blog on Flashbacks the other day, I was, in the following order, convinced she was wrong (before I read the post), aggravated, (because I actually START my current WIP with a flashback), infuriated (because DANG, I hate it when I’m wrong), and finally grateful (because I was given a gift I didn’t know I wanted).  Not only was Kristen’s advice about Flashbacks spot on, she really helped me understand WHY.  And that is the mark of a great teacher.  She got past my initial knee-jerk reaction, and in a very entertaining way, worked me round to her way of thinking.  Sneaky, this one.  But so right!

This, my friends, is how we learn.  Now, not only do I have to re-examine how I start my story, but her post also made me realize I needed to examine the story I’m really trying to tell.  And it was NOT the story I thought I was trying to tell.  Fortunately, I’m only 100 pages into it.  So it’s early days, and I have time to go back and reweave the tapestry.  If I hadn’t taken the time to read her post, revising on this puppy would have been H E double hockey sticks.  Cuz you all KNOW how much I despise revisions.

I encourage all of you to read Kristen’s blogs.  She’s amazing.  And the three blogs she recently published related to flashbacks won’t only teach you about the evils of this dreaded writing tactic, but will also give you some hints about story structure and pacing that any writer, no matter how seasoned, can benefit from, if only in the reminding.

So now, back to the slog.  I’m giving myself until the middle of May to get the bones of this current WIP in place.  But come May 15, I need to get back to the final run through of my mystery, so I can meet that June 21st deadline for publication.  Wish me luck and please, if you can spare it, send along more of those vats of butt glue.  I don’t think I used enough the last time, I keep managing to pry myself loose to go in search of Cheetos!

Illegitimi non carborundum!

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JM Aucoin, Swashbuckling & A New Hero

07 Monday Apr 2014

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So I’ve been buried deep in the rewrite of the first book in my new mystery series for what seems like an eternity, but has really only been several months.  I’m so close to being done I can taste it… but I’ve become so sick of the flavor of red pen and dusty keyboard that when fellow writer EJ McFall challenged me to commit to CampNano in April, I jumped at the chance to create new words.

But I had no story… until inspiration hit while sitting on the parking lot that is the Jane Addams during rush hour.  I had a character – a reformed Conquistador, who abandons Gonzalo Pizzaro after the sack of Cusco, and struck out into the mountains, where he finds a shaman who sends him through a portal to another world to heal his soul.

All good.  After a couple of days, I now have the rest of the cast, my female protag (an ex-hippie from the summer of love), a pirate, a museologist from Chicago, a lord of the local constabulary (think Hugh Beringar from Cadfael) and a cocaine sniffing monk.  It’s all coming together in a complicated tapestry that I could not have predicted in a million years.  And I’m LOVING it.  I don’t think I’ve been this excited about a project in… donkey’s years.

But I needed research.  I know very little about the 1400s or the conquest and destruction of the Incas.  So I let myself fall down the rabbit hole and made a couple of really cool incidental discoveries that I thought I’d share here.

First, fellow author and history nut, JM Aucoin, who writes a fab series of pirate stories set in the 17th century. All the swashbuckling you could ask for, fun plots and really great characters to rally round (and maybe even fall a little in love with).  Check out his blog here:

http://www.jmaucoin.com

and definitely pick up the first story in his Jake Hawking series, it’s available here on Amazon. Well worth the read.

Second is a new Spanish Television series about a 17th century swashbuckler called Alatriste, starring the very yummy Aitor Luna (not to be confused with the movie version, starring the not-too-shabby-himself Viggo Mortensen).  Like the movie, the show is based on the series of books by Arturo Perez-Reverte and it airs sometime this spring in Spain. The trailer makes it one of those “have to see” shows.  Hopefully, we’ll be able to stream it or get it on DVD, because it would a shame to miss this much swashbuckling action, romance and derring-do.  Check out the preview here.  I might just have to learn Spanish…

Don’t you just love falling down the rabbit hole? Cheers, folks!

 

 

It Doesn’t Suck!

20 Monday Jan 2014

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So I spent the weekend with some really wonderful women who are also writers. At a small lake house in southern Wisconsin. In the winter. To say it was an amazing weekend doesn’t seem to do justice to it. But the most amazing part (aside from great company, lots of laughs, scrumptious food and beautiful scenery) was what I managed to accomplish. I got through the first read thru of the first novel in my new mystery series. And I discovered two things. First, revisions aren’t as hard or as scary as I imagined they would be. And second, I don’t suck anywhere near as bad as I thought I did!

Yes, there are some plot holes. So those will need filling in. And yes, there are some pesky little slow points and places that just plain didn’t track with the rest of the flow. And of course, I haven’t even begun to line edit for fun things like word crutches and tightening up passive construction. But I’m just so thrilled to have gotten through the first pass successfully. I had created such angst even contemplating a revision that it had become a process to be avoided at all costs. A fearful, toothsome monster that squatted at the doorway to success, sneering at me, muttering, “You shall not pass”, turning me away every time I dared approach.

But I confronted that monster, and amid the joyous and supportive bosom of my writerly friends, won freedom from it.

Of course, now there is more work to be done. Scenes to write. Passages to cut. Holes to plug. But I can see my way through to it now, and it’s work I understand. And in a matter of weeks, I’ll finally be able to say, yes, truly, this is done.

And then I get to start all over again on something new. But this time, without the fear of being unable to really finish it!