Check out the new, first ever, FFO Anthology!

In my spare time, I am a "slush" reader: someone who reads unsolicited submissions for the Magazine Flash Fiction Online.  I happen to *adore* flash fiction. For FFO, that's less than 1000 words, creating a complete story arc.

Everything that makes it past us "slushies" and into FFO is creative, crafted, and if you didn't like it for any reason, OVER.

The first-ever anthology is out, and it is a fun thing to read, then pass along to other friends who may never have experienced this particular form.

Amazon Kindle: Flash Fiction Online 2014 Anthology
Other Ebook Formats: Flash Fiction Online 2014 Anthology

If you decide you enjoy reading this format as much as I do, please consider becoming a Patron. The anthology is a reward at the $5/month donor level here: Patreon

Book Review

So there's this 'write everyday' thing that all Real Writers claim is the key to writerdom. I find that I truly enjoy writing book reviews, so here's a link to the one I wrote in the middle of last night, after finishing the next-to-last Jane Austen Mystery Series Novel.

As always, feedback is very welcome - especially whether or not the Review was enjoyable to read in-and-of-itself and whether it would be helpful to you, if you were going to consider reading this book.

(Those are the goals of a book review, right?)

Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron by Stephanie Barron
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This installation of a series beloved to me seems to have less "Jane" and more madness. While I am glad that Jane and Henry get to enjoy each other's company, the other characters, and even the settings of this book, feel less solid than I have come to expect. Perhaps as there is more fiction - fewer of Austen's actual letters to hang the fiction on - I found the descriptions of Brighton, pavilion, rooms, less clear and immersive than previous works. Still, the action led to an interesting plot; As with all mysteries, the blinds and dead ends were enjoyable. Unfortunately, Jane's single minded coherence is lost in the efforts of too many characters, going to too many places, causing a tumbled, unstructured narrative that feels different than Jane writing to herself in her little journal. Despite the more 'active' nature and pace, I was still able to linger over some description. I enjoyed the Master of Ceremonies character who socio-autistically recalls every person, every dance, and every aspect of 'toilet' for every Assembly. Useful in a murder investigation, to be sure. The flirt with Lord Harold's broader tale - then continuation of The Elephant In The Room - was disappointing, and made Mona feel less a 'friend' than a haute ton convenience of plot. Still, I enjoy every one of these novels like canvassing what is new with old friends: this one is just more like tepid coffee with an old friend who is having an off day.


View all my reviews

The Scroll of Years - A Review

The Scroll of Years

A Gaunt and Bone Novel

Having finished The Scroll of Years by Chris Willrich only moments ago, I hereby judge that it is not an average, everyday book. By that I mean it is not about a cast of characters placed in stories and committed to the written word.

Instead, Willrich has written a magical invitation to peruse a series of bound pages where, by happy chance, fantastic figures’ own paths direct them to travel back and forth in this specific vicinity…and they happen to have been captured by a sensitive translator.

My ruling on The Scroll of Years is based on many things, but foremost the structure of the book.  Willrich’s debut novel is comprised of long and short chapters, tales within tales, and shifts in time, location, culture, perspective, and language.  The result is deceptive: the simple exterior of a fantasy softcover hides an interior that is a complex literary work. This book insistently demands that any prospective reader thrust away their grasp of linear tale telling as a prerequisite to jumping into this adventure.

I will not mince words: This is not a book everyone will enjoy. The protagonists travel an entire world of territory, and the stories told are drawn from every major occurrence of a human lifetime. I found it difficult at times to catch up again after putting it down, as if somehow the story had continued to evolve while I wasn’t actively reading it.

To enjoy the work, I suggest that you be a reader who can be dropped without warning or explanation onto the back of a Springfang, into a bottomless pit, or through the portal of scholarly monastic life. This is not a book for any reader requiring reason or exposition. Persistent readers will find some of each inside this novel, but it will be wrapped carefully and carried next to a character’s true heart.

The Scroll of Years is a collection of tales about persons generally meeting the modern definition of “westerners” and “easterners.” The travels and antics of the characters are guides or perhaps crutches, for the reader seeking wisdom about an astonishing range of life experiences. From the book, readers can steal treasures about true growing up, forgiveness, partnership in love, parenting, and even coming to peace with our own flawed selves.

The thrilling cover illustration of high-fantasy artwork, and Willrich’s own description of the novel as “sword and sorcery” does the book an injustice.  I believe it is well beyond what the traditional fantasy novel has provided. The Scroll of Years is more than one rich world-building adventure; it is easily three or perhaps, lucky seven. Characters go beyond the traditional troupe of scout, fighter, thief, wizard, and cleric, to include the avocations of monks, politicians, assassins, poets, mothers, fathers, adolescents, emperors, dragons, walls, ways, ghosts, vampires, accountants, sailors, outcasts, and even a loyal log-chasing dog.

What I enjoyed about the novel was being tossed into a wonderful new way to use language. Willrich has invented novel techniques for dialog and storytelling that derive from opposites. His writing incorporates east and west, man-on-the-street and sage, human and animal, child and adult. I can only describe my reaction toward writing so completely new and different as similar to how I felt reading Gibson’s cyberpunk for the first time. Reading this book is likely to cause a disturbance in your Chi, but channeling will reward the reader tenfold.

What I had to overcome to enjoy the book was the idea that I was picking up a recreational-fantasy drug. This book requires attention, commitment and participation from its readers. If you allow it, this book can teach you more than a little bit about life’s biggest lessons. To the inattentive, I imagine this book is just a muddied flood that will wash over you, scrape you up with pointed words, and carry you away, without ever allowing you to plumb its depths of meaning.

Time for some 'Professional Development'

Each day that I am unemployed I plan to:

• Read (at least) 2 professional articles or posts
• Watch (at least) 30 minutes of video at Lynda.com to learn something new OR Attend one live webinar or web class
• Write (at least) one blog post
• Apply to (at least) 2 jobs

The first three bullets on the list above are things I should really have been doing the entire time I was employed.  Like so many people I know, I never made the time for them. Now time is what I have - and only time will tell how badly I have fallen behind in managing my career...and how quickly I can refresh my knowledge and skills sets for the interviews that will land me my next paid challenge.

Because let's face it, career management may be critical, but it isn't always easy.  In high school I knew that job security had gone the way of the dodo bird. Career Management was a skill that was explicitly taught in the mid 90s when I graduated from college. American - or at least Californian - culture had accepted that employer and employee loyalty was dead: 'At Will' was King. And the new King demanded those 40-80 hour work weeks in exchange for the privilege of bending to his will...oh, and a paycheck.

For the moment, I AM KING!
It feels pretty great to have that crown...but my kingdom feels a bit small. Maybe some of my fields and forests are overgrown. Maybe a few castles are in disrepair.

In this stretch of my unemployment, whether long or short, if I want to work on my "extracurricular" projects (feasting, hunting, jousting) I plan to hold myself ransom until my "work" is done. I hope that this will be easy, since I have a pattern and habit of working 8-10 hours a day, breaking for meals, tea, and exercise. It has become a question of re-defining what my daily "work" is and making every task count twice (or maybe 3 times): once for my job search, once for my professional development, and lastly for my personal development.

Do you try to do things everyday that count in all three categories? What do you do and how do you do it?  Watch for daily posts, and I look forward to your feedback!

Charisma

I woke up deeply startled a few days ago to this thought, "I will never again get to rescue the Boy."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was in fourth or fifth grade I met a New Boy. You know...or, well, you might not...But it is important that it NOT be the boys you've been going to private, Catholic school with since kindergarten. The ones who try to get you to swing across the monkeybars so they can look up your plaid skirt. The ones you played Lego Pirate Ship with.

No this has to be a New Boy...one who doesn't know you're an uncool Tomboy. One who doesn't go to your school. One that is blonde and handsome. One who likes to use his imagination to read and play D&D. And hopefully one who thinks you're cool...or at least not TOO annoying... because you like those things too.

This Boy was my Ideal of Manhood from the day I met him until I fell in love with my husband. Quite a few boyfriends got short shrift because of this boy. I wrote dozens of letters and bad poetry for this Boy (I still have them all). Mostly because he had "charisma."

I would watch him, when allowed to tagalong with that slightly older crowd. Everyone laughed around him. Everyone looked at him. Everyone seemed - like me - to want to touch him, all the time.

And he was so different. Unlike the other boys, who would slap your hand away, or sling an insult, this boy was comfortable in a puddle of friends. Yes...Puddle. After hours on a D&D adventure, a mystery adventure...I honestly don't remember what we played at all the time...this Boy, and a few others would allow me into their "puddle" of all curling up, singing or laughing or just watching the stars young people. Such a warm, kind Boy.

He is still an amazing Boy. Well, okay Man (but in my head, he's that Boy).

In fact, realizing that this Boy would never be My Boy was instrumental in the realization that my husband was, in fact, perfectly suited to be My Boy. But that's another story...

This story has a happy ending, because the New Boy, who never was My Boy, found and wooed His Girl...and this June they got married.



I know. You're thinking "He's not Blonde...?" The east coast ate his blonde hair. He laughs and says one reason he is my friend after all these years is because I'm the only person who still always remembers him as blonde. I don't think of him as just blonde. In my heart he is in every way golden.

Actually he's my friend because I like to keep things. I try to treat the cherished trinkets of my life as I want to be treated - I want them to know they are loved, and I won't loose interest. Won't be blinded by new shinier baubles. I keep memories, and that helps me keep people. Memories like these:

The old greenhouse on D's property down the street. High shelves originally for plants, now a fort for us kids: D, the Boy, me...there may have been others, but I wouldn't remember them. Couldn't remember anyone when the Boy was there. Singing. The Boy would just sing, sweet and beautiful songs at any old time, but especially at night, even with no campfire. Just because singing is beautiful...and his voice...so beautiful it makes me cry...

OR

There is hair growing under my right armpit, but not my left. At thirteen I know I'm probably one of the last girls in my Jr. High class to get my period, but I don't care, and I don't want to think about it. I'm too embarassed to even think about it, especially after a conversation my mother has tried to have with me in the car about something her OBGYN has said when they were talking about me and being tall for my age: My mother talks about me to her Doctor! Mortifying.

P.E. is over and I hate, hate, hate Mr. Messineo for making us run all up and down the hilly campus. I'm so sweaty in my crotch I feel like I've peed my pants...and when I finally get one of the two coveted dark, close stalls go to pee...there is blood on my white underpants. And I start to shake. And they are cold when I pull them up against my skin again, which feels disgusting. It never occurs to me to tell any of the other girls. To ask any girls in my class for help.

I have an audition downtown for a play, and I'm supposed to change into "free clothes," not my private school uniform. I know my mint green "Thriller" buckled pants are going to show the blood...what can I do? What can I do? I know what I have to do, but I don't even know how I know.

I go to the office. I'm hoping Tina is there - I've known her since I was in Kindergarten, I'm comfortable with her, but no, it is Mrs. Dalmark - Jill's mom, and now everyone in the whole school will know I've gotten my period. I say I've gotten my period - how I blurted it out I have no idea - and I ask for a pad. She tries to be kindly and asks if I know how to use it. I say I do...but when I go into the clean, bright little bathroom off the office, both sides seem sticky. I have no idea what to do. Oh well. At least it will keep more blood from getting onto my pants, and I can go to my audition. I don't even remember how I got there - my mom must have taken me, but I didn't tell her anything. Too terribly, horribly embarrassed by my secret.

And there is the Boy, and for one moment that day I am so excited. Thrilled with adrenaline surprise and relief. Someone safe who I can tell my horrible secret to. Someone kind and warm who I trust after all these years and...There he is, surrounded by a group of pretty girls and boys, all older than me. In the hall of the Unitarian Church, where we are all gathering for Peace Child Auditions. I hear him sing and I see him surrounded by friends and I am now again shaking with fear that he will see the bloodstains, and I will be disgusting and embarassing to him. I do not even say hi. I watch him the whole time, wanting be near him, and hear him sing...sing to me, but going nowhere near him on the first day of my first period.

OR

Left turn onto Carillo in J's beatup, silver Datsun. Just J and me having lunch together before going back to the another class of work on the high school newspaper. Going for Pizza, with his blonde hair and my brown hair being sucked out the open windows. After the turn, I see a figure in black, bright gold hair, sitting on a low sandstone wall, reading.

Suddenly I am screaming, "Pull over! Pull over!" and hanging half out of my window crying the Boy's name. The unexpected sight of him supercharges me with a brand of excitement reserved for him alone. After a bewildered J pulls the car to a stop, I burst from it, running madly down the street and SURPRISE! He didn't hear me call as we drove - too engrossed in his book. I got to surprise him, and make him smile at me...that smile...and a promise to see him later...before running back to my lunch date, and trying to explain the Boy to J. Unpleased J, though it never ocurred to me at the time why...

OR

After I could drive, I got to "rescue" the boy. That's how I always thought of it. His parents lived up in the hills, and he was forever without transportation, sometimes without companionship. He would call my house to see if I wanted to hang out with him and give him a ride home. Did I ever! I'd pick him up from the bookstore he haunted and drive with him up into winding Santa Ynez mountains.

Mountainsides of chaparral and sandstone boulders passed, glowing in moonlight, until we plunged into a close, dark hairpin turn edged on all sides by a stand of live oak trees. So high above the town, it was often hot and windy with Santa Ana's at his house, and I loved to be there, caressed by the hot wind.

He slept in a small wedge of loft off his step dad's office. My mom was so cool: She trusted me completely, and I got to sleep there with him a few times, all curled up in that space that smelled so good to me, and was so full of Him.

If all of that sounds innocent and pathetic, I have to say it was. And when I was a bit older, I regretted that. Regretted for years not trying harder to have more of the Boy or make him mine.

Of course I know now, with a greater experience of love and sex that the Boy and I were never traveling in the same direction, at the same time. Even if I was his type (and yes, after seeing a few girlfriends, I have to say that he does have a type, and I am not it), we would never have been in love. Even if I had somehow managed to convince him to have sex with me in between the more accessible people I was "in love" with, he was unattainable, because of him, because of geography, and because of me. Who wants to destroy their golden idol by actually touching it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"He has a wife. Soon he will have children, a new career, a new family. He will never again need to be rescued, by me or anyone else. He won't find himself alone, or lonely, and needing a friend. He is beloved, and supported, and cared for...just like I am by my husband, my best friend.

I am so happy for him.

And it huuuuurts!!! Letting go of that imaginary responsibility - the thrilling possibility of being called upon to save someone - even from loneliness, even from boredom...free of the calling...oh, deep inside it huuurtsss......"

Not Ready To Leave...

...my hotel room. After a few days here, I'm nice and safe; I found a radio station I can deal with, I have lots of clean towels, and the bed finally holds the impression of my frame enough that I slept the whole night through.

But it is almost time to go, and really I'm just stalling because if I'm not sitting here, then I'm sitting in the airport. Much less interesting. Although there are people there, and I'd be doing the same things (well, not blogging, as there's no guarantee of internet access).

But I *would* in fact be reading (most of what I've been doing this morning). Enjoying another great new book, Wit's End, by Karen Joy Fowler, whose Jane Austen Book Club I enjoyed so much. Wit's is also great...so compelling, that I had to tear myself away to get my teeth brushed and the last few little things packed. I'm quite grateful I didn't start it until the end of my trip - I would certainly not have been as on-my-game for work if I was constantly sneaking out for a 5 minute read-break...

Should I admit I do that sometimes? When the book is truly as well-written and engrossing as this one is? Well, this book is also conducive to that: Lots of short segments, so it is easy to set down and pick up. But I don't want to.

Really the reason I wanted to blog today was that I had other confessions to make. I did a truly, consciously anti-social thing: I put a half hamburger bun in the toaster at my hotel kitchenette...and it already had ketchup and mustard on it. There's no chance the condiment-side wouldn't touch the coils. Anyone staying in this room in the future is going to get just a little spice to their toast.

I thought about this before I did it, and I TOLD myself it was anti-social, unfair to the next person...but for all I know, someone has done the same thing before me, and I was getting a little bit of who-knows-what on the top side of my bun. In my head it is the same conversation I have when deciding whether or not to report the fairly serious trickle from the bathtub to the hotel owners. Well, I haven't done that yet, but I WILL let them know as I leave - a decidedly unnecessary waste of water. I didn't shower each day I was here, so maybe that makes up for it.

Nearly everything is packed, the suitcases are MUCH lighter, because I was good, and I ate most of the food I brought with me, and stuck primarily to my diet. I have been awake for hours because unfortunately, I awoke to one of those you-want-to-be-completely-organized-but-you-know-that-you're-not
mini-panic moments, and I thought that maybe I had my flight time wrong - YIKES!

But no, I got up and double checked; And double-checked...and couldn't really go back to sleep. It is going to make being on CA time especially hard, I know, but oh well. Time to post, close up the computer and go. And who knows - maybe there WILL be wireless at the airport...?

Reader / Writer?

I feel like I've heard it said before, but I'm NOT going to waste any of my 12 writing minutes, and 3 editing minutes (trying to be regimented about this) looking up who and how many and when they might have said something like: Readers are Writers. I think that is true.

If you don't love words, why pick up a book, let alone spend time instead of earning money, doing something that is highly unlikely to contribute to anything except personal fulfillment (can you tell I'm feeling unemployed right now?).

I HAD to write today, my "unemployed" goal is to write for 15-30 minutes, minimum each day...but I wasn't "good" about it. I didn't get up and make time and space for my writing. Instead, I "wasted" several hours this morning the way I wasted several last night: Getting through and amazing, wonderful new book: Ysabel by Guy Gavriel Kay (I'm not wasting time making this a link now, but might later...see this is REAL stream of conscious, wordvomit).

I won't say why exactly it was so amazingly wonderful to me, except to say K.M. will know, because he was there. How very Kaylike of me. The fact remains that there is truly NOTHING...No Thing...in the universe similar in any way to a good book. Today (and it may be different tomorrow), that is because books can include all the best, the worst, the darkest and the brightest things in the whole world, wrapped into words, and they are real to those with imagination...and you get to close the cover. You can get distance or deep intimacy as you like, wholly under your control. Man, I love books.

Books are filled with people to love and hate and, when the writer is incredible, like this one, those people can seem more real than the corporeal folks occupying the seats on either side of you.

Juxtapose my deep elation with another piece of data: There are LOTS of people out there who read the end of books first. SACRILIDGE! (in my humble opinion, of course) NPR was just doing a whole hour talking to a writer and these people who can't take the suspense of working through the whole book to allow the ending to be as big, incredible and deeply affecting as it can be...I guess they aren't reading for the emotional thrills...wonder why they bother?

And a third thing: I know my husband, and other friends who skip the "flowery" language. My husband says he can flip to anyplace in book and tell fairly quickly if it is "literary" or not by the ratio of words and description to the action. I don't need action at all. I need depth, images, and words, words, word...Anne Rice is on my team - which team are you on...?

Booking Inside and Out

Does anyone still use the verb "to book" anymore?

"Gotta Book, Man."

In the 80s (probably earlier) that phrase meant going someplace fast. Well this weekend, and today by extention, I went a lot of places, really fast. Here are just a few examples:

~~~~~~~~~~

A Book to Inner-Book about for a BookWorm:
I have been asked to come up with "personal development goals" for 2007. What, like besides being a professional student? I mean, I LOVE LEARNING....so much that I tend to get obsessive and addictive about immersing myself...just as I do about just about everything, eh?

So over the course of the day, in between other work I came up with no fewer than 8 or 10 directions I could go in for developing. ZOOM! And agonizing choices await me: Which one, which one!?! (Or ones, if I have the stamina) Conferences, Skills, Ideas, Knowledge...or maybe just reading a book, like Influencing With Integrity (IWI). Weird Title. Slightly Offputting for an unidentifiable reason. Perhaps "Influencing" is a turnoff (though that shouldn't be an issue for a student of The Social Animal by Elliot Aronson). Perhaps "Integrity" (Do I want to know what that means? What if I don't have it?).

Resisting usually indicates to me something that I "should" do...something I will enjoy if only I can start! So, as a part of my goal to do some research on "personal development goals" I cracked open IWI and started reading. Three forewards. Interesting. Chapter 1 made me cry. WOW. So I'm at page 17 and I'm a convert. The author herself told me not to read it cover to cover, so I'm honoring that as simply recognizing the distance between a FREE book on my shelf for months with a stigma of "Don't touch it - it's EeeeVil!" attached and a book I intend to bookmark as I get to each stopping point, take home, and (if necessary, but it won't be) FORCE my husband to read in tandem with me, for ongoing disussion.

Booking, indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~

I Booked through a painful weekend with this Book:
I HIGHLY recommend The Grand Ellipse by Paula Volsky to readers who need a book for vacation. Be ready to handle a gripping story about wonderful characters competing to travel a fictional world that looks like the Industrial Revolution with Magic.

It took me a weekend, on and off. It has chapters which are just the right length for stopping, going on a hike, and picking up where you left off. Caution: to really appreciate the horror and happiness of the sappy ending, read in private, not on the airplane on the way home, with a 10 year old next to you.

Beautiful descriptions, harrowing adventures, underhanded misdeeds by complete Black Hats and a highly probable love-triangle. When you really need your Good Guys to be GOOD, your Bad Guys to be BAD, the hero to win the heroine in the end, and a happy ending unmarred by unbelievable perfection...Read this book!