But It's a Dry Heat

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Half-Baked Leftovers and a Freebie

Free story. Free!

The problem with being a newbie writer, or even an old-bie writer, isn’t the absence of advice and information. For example, wanna know how to writer better dialogue? There’s a book for that. Or an “app.” Likely several. As well as numerous blog postings and articles available online and free.

Some of the advice out there is good; some possibly cooked up while shooting heroin.  But a bigger problem–for me anyway–was sorting out which of the good advice actually applied to me.

When I started writing my first novel, I was told that in order to break in, find an agent, etc., I had to first publish some short stories. In a rare fit of obedience, I dutifully cranked out a few short stories.

No writing is truly a waste of time. How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, practice. But writing short fiction, when short fiction isn’t your thing, is sort of like practicing the mambo when you really would rather dance ballet. It adds to your repertoire and builds skills. But it may ultimately be a distraction from what you should be doing.

So I wrote short stories. Most of them set in the world of The Improbable Child, aka, Regan O’Connell, aka, the milleue of The Music of Chaos. Most are fun, flawed, and not publishable. (I.e., no editor is going to pay me for my efforts.)

“Keep Away from Naked Flame” is in my humble opinion, one of my best stories. In fact, if I just kept waiting, and submitting, it would probably find the right market. But, instead, I’m going to pop it first rights cherry here and post it. It’s a funny story of yet another of Regan’s misadventures in diplomacy, accompanied by her best pal, Talis the dark elf.

Also under the new Extras section on this blog, I posted a couple of outtakes/cut scenes from The Music of Chaos. Both were deleted because they didn’t add much to the story. Think of them as the stuff, back when films were actually on “film,” the bits that ended up on the cutting room floor.

Chronicles of Narnia, Voyage of the Dawn Treader

“After that, I need to watch a good movie about ships,” says my husband, popping Pirates of the Caribbean in the DVD player.

That being Chronicles of Narnia, Voyage of the Dawn Treader.  Granted, if one were trying to clean one’s palette with a good nautical movie, one would reach for Master and Commander. But Voyage of the Dawn Treader sets the bar so low, Pirates is a masterpiece of seafaring authenticity.

Confession. I’m not a fan of the Narnia series. I know—gasp!–fantasy writer heresy.  It would seem that every fantasy writer lists the Narnia stories as the beloved childhood tales that shaped them into the writer they are today. If by “shaped,” you mean “don’t write boring-ass allegories,” then yeah, I too was shaped.

The only book I’ve read in the series is (more…)

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

We don’t need no steenkin’ repairmen. We’re Kirbys. Together, me ‘n my man have built a barn and an art studio, remodeled the kitchen, and converted a garage to a dining room.  Like a toddler who’s tied her shoes for the first time, we did it “all by ourselves.”

Unfortunately, in the absence of repairmen, our work force is reduced to one man and one small scrawny woman, meaning there isn’t much “heavy” in “lifting.”

The Discovery of Gravity
In the desert southwest, “air conditioning” is another way of saying “swamp cooler.”  Recently, there’s been a trend toward real air conditioning, but the majority of homes are still cooled by swamp coolers. Despite a simple design, the damn things never work right. At any given time, you can expect to see a neighbor on his roof, head buried in the cooler, curses echoing off the metal sides. Often, you’re that neighbor.

A few years back, our swamp cooler (more…)

How to Get Killed at a Crafts Show

Or three things you should never say at a crafts show. (Under penalty of death. You have been warned.)

Disclaimer: By and large, the people who frequent craft fairs are terrific. Friendly. Polite. Just plain nice. But at every picnic, there must be some flies. Here are three recurring humans pests at Art in the Park. (Corrales, NM, every third Sunday of the month, May to September. Promote, promote, promote.)

1. The Cheapskate.

I’m an artist and a writer. Ever-diminishing cash flow is a fact of life. I understand that not everyone can afford original art and handmade crafts created by first-world artisans.

Nonetheless, there’s a special level of hell for people who say, “I can buy something just like this for half the price at Wal-Mart.” Special level, where you’ll be forced to watch endless reruns of Jersey Shore while bamboo slivers are shoved under your fingernails.

No, you can’t (more…)

Just Keep Clapping

Publish America is a crooked vanity publisher in sheep’s clothing. But that isn’t the point of this particular ramble.

This morning, I came upon this in the Publish America (PA) thread at Absolute Write. The commenter was responding to another commenter who asked if anyone had privately contacted any PA writers.

I’ve sent a few PMs via Facebook when I’ve seen some authors express dissatisfaction with PA or ask questions that won’t be answered honestly. (…)
Another author, on the other PA page, said the only choice was between 1. PA 2. expensive self-publishing 3. the major publishers, who wouldn’t look at work from unknown authors. When I explained about small presses, he said he would do some research, but then claimed small publishers like Ellora’s Cave were all vanity presses trolling Facebook to destroy PA.

In short, when confronted with the facts about PA, certain writers shove (more…)

Facebook Won’t Eat Your Kittens

Stuff you can count on. The swallows returning to Capistrano. Taxes. Death. And someone on Facebook having a meltdown over privacy controls.

OMG! Facebook has changed its settings again. Now, it can steal your children and sell them into slavery.”

To which, I shrug. See, this is why I don’t have children. I’m exactly the kind of twisted fiend, who, on tripping over yet another toy in the hallway, would gleefully sell my offspring into slavery.

Nonetheless, I go and check my privacy settings. And, sure enough, they are already set to “Don’t steal my children and sell them into slavery” mode. Much ado about nada.

Facebook sucks. But not because (more…)

I Feed My Muse True Blood

The only problem with watching True Blood via Netflix is that it leaves me feeling like the slow kid in class.  Everybody else has moved on to lesson four, while I’m still stuck in lesson three.  That is, I’m still watching season three, with no chance of seeing season four for months.

But I’m still not ponying up the cambio for cable tv, much less the premium channels. Besides, on DVD, I can watch certain scenes over and over. (Nekkid Eric!) Last night, however, it was my husband who was re-watching a scene. Surprisingly it didn’t involve nudie boobies.  It was the scene where Russell Edgington gleefully rips the spine out of an anchorman. (Given the quality of American journalism, it’s really a pity that vampires don’t exist.) Russell goes on a delightful rant about humans–our greedy and self-destructive nature–all while blithely gesturing with the bloody spine. My husband declared it, “The best episode, ever.”

Me, I’m just happy when Eric shows up wearing nothing at all.

Meanwhile, I’m spending a lot of time with my own obnoxious blond vampire, Breas Montrose. I’ve got a stack of edits from my Carina Press editor for The Canvas Thief. Breas describes his role in the story as:

“I’m a Gandalf. I hang around, full of powerful magic I never use, and make vague, important-sounding statements.”

***

Amusing side note. A search for Eric Northman in Google images turns up one very ordinary, somewhat pudgy, middle-management white guy. He sticks out like a sore thumb among the many images of smexy, blond vampires. Heh.

Who Is That Masked Horse?

“STOP DIGGING!”

What my neighbors hear every morning from May to October.

Summer and Fall are the seasons of flies.  This year, thanks (sort of) to a short and very unusual span of below zero temperatures, the fly hordes didn’t show up until June. Once in full force, they get down to making life miserable for the Wonder Horse.

By and large, horses are well designed to deal with flying pests. Along with long swishing tails and manes, they do this cool thing where they wiggle the flies right off their skin. (I wish I could do that.) But the flies’ favorite place to hang out, beside steaming piles of shit, is in the corners of a horse’s eyes.

You know those sad little starving children in Africa? Too weak to brush away the flies that cluster around their eyes?  Horses are kind of like that. To flies, eyes are like an Evian drinking fountain.  After just a few hours of this, the Wonder Horse’s eyes turn red and start leaking puss. Nasty.

So every morning, before breakfast, he gets his fly mask.  He knows the routine and stands by the gate waiting for me to come out of the barn with the mask and a few treats. (The routine has also morphed into an annoying game where he grabs the masks and shakes it. He won’t let me put it on until he does this.  As with any bad habit, the fault lies with the stupid human who thought the stupid horse trick was cute. At first.)

While I’m in the barn getting the mask, Mr. Impatient starts to paw. With enthusiasm. An 1100-pound animal can dig a large hole in just a few seconds.  Locating that hole by the gate is paramount to setting a booby-trap for any unsuspecting human. It has the added bonus of catching and tipping over wheelbarrows full of horseshit.

So when he starts digging I run out of the barn and yell, “No digging.” He stops and bangs on the gate with his hooves (my little drummer pony). I go back in the barn. Digging begins anew. I come out, yell, and you can see the smug satisfaction on his long face. “I’ve got her trained.”

Trouble is, he’s right.

Truth in Advertising

You know you’ve been at a job too long when the simple act of getting up, going outside and getting the mail becomes a kind of deliverance from the excruciating pain of ennui poisoning.*  I slog across the asphalt parking lot, collect my payload and return to the Chamber of Dull where I sort through the pile looking for anything interesting.  Today’s trip yielded this.**

The first thing that came to mind when I saw this sales flyer was the Joni Mitchell song, Big Yellow Taxi:

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.

*I’ve probably worked there about three and a half years. An eternity for me.

**Actual business name photoshoped away because the world doesn’t need any more blacktop.

Will There Be Laundry Involved?

In a lovely change from the adverts for manroot fertilizer, I get this in my inbox. (It somehow sneaked past my spam filters.)

Doris wants a “true relationship and partner.”

Dear Doris,

As a rule i make a Point not To get involved wIth people who haven’t mastered the Fine art of Capitalization.  But in your case, I might make an exception.  (Because you called me “Dear” and added that cute little rose graphic.) That is, if  by “true relationship and partner,” you mean “washing the dog,” “cleaning house,” “mucking out the horse’s paddock” and “doing laundry.”  If so, please send your pics to ineedamaid@filthyhouse.com

If by relationship you mean…like sex? (/Kaylee from Serenity voice), then I’ll pass as my smexy steampunk zombie takes care of all my needs.

Cheers,

P. Kirby