Some Bad News and Some Great News

First, the grand, glorious great news – Every Day Fiction published “My Lover’s Skin” – a story about old age and memories (if I put it like that, it may be less confusing – many beta readers were baffled by the story, since it’s a first POV of an extremely confused person)

This is worthy of a giddy-leap-of-pride and embarassing-happy-victory-dance! When I got the acceptance e-mail, I actually stared at it and swore like the filthiest mouthed, one eyed, one legged, parrot on a shoulder, bona fide sailor for about ten minutes. It’s a big deal for me, because – guess what – this is the very first time I got paid for stuff I made up. Out of my own head. Puff and the good publishing fairy threw golden coins at me.

 

Poke around the archives – you’ll find many great stories, including several flashed by Cat Rambo and many lovely, new writers.

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The Book That Chose

The only book I ever lost was a collection of Myths of the World.
When I was about six or seven, I found it in a heap of ancient books, all older than me by a couple of decades but still well preserved. Except this one. The cover had been torn – by accident or on purpose I couldn’t tell, the pages looped together with white string not unlike dental floss, pages about the Native American and Indian mythos missing. Obviously, this was a mysterious book and just as obviously, I was drawn to it. Nobody could tell me its origin. Clearly this was a mystery book, reserved for the chosen one and that one was me.
Later, after we moved to the city, I tried to find it. The strange thing was, nobody seemed to remember it. Both my parents and grandparents looked at me, bafflement and confusion slapped across their faces, and said “We’ve never had such a book.” It was a mystery book and I was its chosen one. Obviously. Very appropriate for a book of myths and magic to behave that way.

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Strange things happen all the time

When Louis glanced at the motel’s glass door, he noticed a lock of his hair had grown iridescent wings. With its antennae and a small, yet perceptible, oval body, the hair seemed to have transformed into a perfect sample of a monarch butterfly. Louis though nothing of it – surely, he was only too exhausted and this was just an insomnia induced hallucination, and the bottle of cheap vodka he often used as a substitute for sleeping pills must have contributed. Besides, the acne speckled teen at the drive through didn’t notice and nether did his landlady who’d appeared at his doorstep yet again demanding rent. He did not have it and had to rely on charm, which he had in abundance. Or so he’d been told by the seventy year old methuselah.

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A Problem of Perspective (or, guys, I need some help)

I cannot begin to explain how exhausted I am. The damn thing sucked the life out of me. Damn the story and damn the twins and damn the narrator.

Right. Deep breaths first. I’m gonna need help with this one – your suggestions are more than welcome.

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Hello, Readers

 

I was away for a very long time. Fortunately, I didn’t quit writing, but, well, you know how it goes, life (with several very bloody and very unpleasant surprises, one of which is still happening) got in the way. I still managed to get dozens of vignettes down on paper, along with several stories that only turned out to be dead once I typed THE END and a couple that were situation, and not plot. More which were all dressed up and nowhere to go – the characters were lovely, but the plot disappeared along with a dozen wads of cash from the safe in the attic library, the bastard.

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I haven’t been posting…

…and I won’t be for a couple of more months. I decided hibernation and complete seclusion from both the blogging world and the online workshop is what I should do right now. My mind is mush once again thanks to the unavoidable summer finals.

The end of my second year of university….and I have not warmed up to it one bit. I don’t like it whatsoever and I find it a giant waste of time. That’s only because I feel that it’s not helping me improve as a writer and that there is far too much emphasis on political science even though I’m on journalism studies. And we don’t have literature classes (why – I don’t know). And fiction is looked down on (this is my impression of it). And I’ve been asked by professors why I’m not in a different university, on comparative literature. And I’ve been penalised because my sentences were “too literary,” which maybe meant too long, but we were doing a feature story/profile interview, so I don’t understand why “literary sentences” would be a problem. Again, these are all my impressions of my time in uni, I’m not being objective whatsoever (because this is a blog, dammit, and I’m allowed to whine).

So I leave you, for now. I will be back, don’t worry.

Thank you for reading Ramblings :)

Oh, and here are some pretty, shiny things to distract you while I sneak out the back door.

Sir Terry Pratchett: ‘Imagination, not intelligence, made us human’

The Mindscape of Alan Moore

Lovecraft: Fear of the Unknown

Treat writing as if it was a god – Alan Moore

Why do I write?

I have read many great writers and almost all of them are completely unknown to the world. They stay in the shadows, in dark alleyways, in the backs of closets around the world, waiting for someone curious enough to stroll by and accept their invitation to their dream world.

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Idea Hunting

Often, when I’m stuck on a particular scene or even when I feel blank, yet restless, I start doodling. (music often just wrecks my concentration)

Sometimes a character or two come out. Sometimes I use them, other times, they are just a spark that sets everything else in motion. I will share two of my doodles here. They are not proportionate really, but then, I love the imagery of twisted mirrors. And again, these are just some things that help me get in “the writing mood” so they’re not supposed to be that good anyway.

There, you know my secretest secret now.

Also, my obvious love for comics. I’ve been reading a lot of them lately (Ellis and Moore mostly). And I’ve been tricked into writing articles for a national (I think) photography center, so that’s getting in the way of my stories. Busy these days. Can’t remember words. Bugger.

A robotic guide to the gardens of Destimondium

A robotic guide to the gardens of Destimondium

Mr Kerrlain

Mr Kerrlain (remember Baba Yaga? Well, this is the male version)

Edgar (part 2)

Part 1

“And good coffee?” asked Edgar.

“So strong it’ll knock the shoes off your feet.”

Edgar thought about returning home. Then he thought about staying in a muse-free room for the night. “This bed…does it have fluffy pillows?” he asked.

The next morning, Edgar woke up with a headache. He remembered paying for a room at the inn, and something about frogs and phlegm, but the rest of the previous day was a confusing and chaotic blur. He mumbled a “Thank you very much” to the bartender who replied with a cheery “You’re always welcome here, laddie” and made his way back home. Edgar was pleased to find most of his aches and pains had evaporated on the crisp morning air. He did not however appreciate the effect the air had on his memory.

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Writers’ Fears

February kicked me in the guts and strode away with a snigger, leaving me curled up on the curb with a broken lip and severely bruised ribs. I did not like this February and obviously it didn’t like me either. I was neither writing nor keeping up with my studies for a month or so and all it did was make the typical writers’ fears and doubt stronger. How bloody wonderful.

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