Friday, February 24, 2017

Free Fridays

Ahh, the first day off of the week!

So let me update you loyal readers with a few things!

Until March 31st, 2017, I will be participating in a Novel Contest through (Although it asks you to sign in, it is totally free, and is basically just so you can add things to your personal reading lists.)

Anywho, this writing contest isn't just voting and such. There are several factors that go into judging all the fine stories that were submitted. Firstly, there is the count of 'reads' a story gets. This is basically every click my story gets that would send a reader to it's first chapter, as well as all subsequent clicks to other, later chapters.

I am currently at 94 'reads'!

And though that makes me feel wonderful, there is another aspect in which stories are judged. This is the over-all 'hooked-ness' of the readers who click on my story. This is judged by time spent reading a chapter, how many chapters are read in succession, if a free copy is downloaded for reading, if it is added to a reading list, etc... Inkitt will collect all of this data and analyse it to see if it is publish-worthy.

Every contestant gets 100 free copies that are available to readers. I am down to 89.

The number of copies left also factors in to where on the listing your story places. For example - contest entries with 0 copies left are usually at the top of the list. Therefore, people are far more likely to click on them and read them, as opposed to mine, which has 89 copies left, and takes 5 clicks of the "show me more" button to find.

SO I took the liberty of posting the link to said tale in my right hand link column there --->

It is The Cellar City Chronicles.

It is also Rated R, mature audiences only, at least 18+ please.

PLease enjoy and support your local Oru!

It would seem she very much needs the support that is sometimes very fleeting in these parts. Of time. And The World.


Tuesday, February 7, 2017

The Wedding

Someday, there will be an autumn night with a crisp, clean sky, free of clouds. The stars will shine in their sockets like diamonds and a cool breeze will drift lazily across the rolling yard. Several red and brown leaves will scatter into the paths of patrons as they arrive, all dressed to match their masks.

The invitation will be written on them, arriving like a mystery to their doorsteps. A singular note attached for a response says, 'This mask is your invitation & entry, so please dress to match.' On which will be the date and time, in silver or gold ink, scrawled like magical items.

The affair would be in and outdoors; a hall to eat with a lawn beside, tables dotted among the stars with lanterns burning and a few fire pits glowing, like the campfires of a traveling gypsy band on the road. Indoors shall be lit by crystal and candle; colored glass and paper to match the wedding party.

Each one wears a mask. All of them do. Including the bride and groom, situated as royalty among their subjects. A gown from a dream, dotted with shimmer and cut well out of fashion with the day and age of things. Tapered sleeves - or not. Perhaps a half cloak lined with deep, deep crimson satin. Or not. Perhaps a flowing sash & twist down the side of burgundy and deep-sea blue. Maybe. But out of a dream. Happy and smiling, mysterious eyes, surrounded by friends.

And the groom is so charming, like a prince from this fairy tale. Elegant and poised, a delicate smirk perched on his lips at all the little joys that his bride receives on this night. He is groomed and well-pressed, and shines like satin himself, and only shines brighter when the bride is near.

Their first dance is like the perfection of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Like butterflies they swirl about the dance floor, enthralling their guests with a dream-like display, where their eyes are locked, and their bodies move without the second-guessing hesitation of beginners.

The banquet is home-made and with love, by friends who smile at the plentiful compliments. The speeches are tearful and humorous, with quick quips and sincerity enough to fill the room with light. The vows - oh the vows, all hand written. Gasping as if speaking their emotions for the first time, discovered anew in the beauty of their words. Hands held. A kiss, a kiss to soothe a tempest-sea, a kiss to level a mountain, a kiss that could shear a whole field of wheat, break down doors, shatter windows, stoke a dying ember into an inferno, a kiss is shared.

And celebration? Lasts until the wee hours of the morning, where the patrons finally seem to awaken, as if from a dream. Most seem to have lost their masks, and now look upon each other as if recognition had just touched them.

They smile.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Another Moment of Panic

SO sometimes I think I can submit things to publishers.

I'm sure I could. It would be easy. Now-a-days it is mostly just copy & paste, copy & paste, copy & paste, send, send, send. Put your name + 'Submission' in the subject line, write a goddamned query that outlines the story and the main character and lays out themes that are focal to the plot, and please also list any credentials that you may have that we say we aren't going to be influenced by when we read this.

I've got this problem. I Love-hate writing. (Love is capitalized, so that's the bigger half.) I want to be able to tell the damn story I want to tell. That's it. I want to be able to put it into words so that someone else can pick it up, read the damn thing, and then look at me with understanding and appreciation because they could see what I saw. I just want to share.

Writing is flipping hard. And Editing makes me want to die. Shoot me in the foot, club me over the head and toss me off the boat, die. What made perfect sense before becomes this shameful, slobbering mess of garbled nonsense drooling all over itself for attention. It's desperate, sloppy, half crippled, mangled by the elements, with blood trickling down its face from an open head wound that is causing severe memory loss and dementia.

Just being created in the first place seems to turn all of my stories into traumatized war zone survivors.

I end up looking at them and just freeze. Who ARE you!? Where the HELL is my story?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THEM!? I can't work with you, I barely KNOW you! What are you wearing? Where are your shoes? Wasn't your hair brown? Weren't you supposed to be funny and wacky? Where is your continuity? What the hell drugs are you on right now!?

SO. I look at the publishers and I get all excited. Not a lot are accepting submissions, you know. Writing is a very popular past-time. Lots of people are doing it. Everyone. In the world. Is submitting. Except me.

But then I think of the puss-oozing, infected injury that I have saved on my hard drive, and I run. LIKE HELL. That isn't what I want people to see! I want them to see what I see! Or rather, What I SAW. The glory, the awe, the emotions, the viscera, the inspiration, the glowing summer sunrise in a far off land.

They aren't finished. They aren't good enough to send out. SO I struggle, painfully, slowly, achingly, desperately to edit, chip and polish them. And underneath the ripped clothing I had so carefully laid out for them when this all began is more ripped, soiled clothing. And beneath that are muddy hand wraps and leg warmers, unecessary and too loud, and beneath that are mismatched socks, drawstring underwear, and then dirt. Dirt, dirt, dirt. Layers of the stuff. I have to scrape at it.

But I can hear it whimper when I scrape too hard. Or maybe thats me. And when I try to throw out the torn shirt, I realize it's their favorite, lucky shirt. It could be the only reason they survived. And maybe the dirty hand wraps are gifts from a dear friend they lost in the war. The legwarmers were the last remaining posession of a little girl it had saved from falling debris, and thus were given as thanks for my tale's heroic act.

And the story looks at me with such great sad eyes. And I know it blames me for the blood trickling down its face, dripping off of its chin. And the worst part, the absolute worst is that it wants me to fix it. It is begging for me to fix it. It howls at the moon, praying to be fixed. And I know that in order to fix it, I first have to tear it to pieces. I have to take the lucky shirt and patch it. I have to find the other matching socks. I have to run a load of wash, and throw the story into a boiling kettle to clear the filth. Then I have to perform surgery without anesthetic. I have to go in with sharpened pen and snip and stuff and clip and poke. I have to bear through the weeping and the screaming and the protests.

And then I can only hope that it survives.

.... No pressure though, I'll submit. Eventually. Sure. No pressure.

No pressure.


Saturday, November 26, 2016

Well Hello.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

NaNoWriMo 2016 Surprise Clip!

Here is a tiny excerpt from what I've been writing. And I mean really tiny.


    Anna paused in the road and looked towards where the group of them had gone. When she was certain the dust from their horses hooves had settled she trotted to catch up to Karth.
    “What language were they speaking, Karth?”
    “Darklandish, I imagine.” He grumbled.
    “I understood them.” She admitted.
    Karth glanced down at her. “Figures.”
    Anna cocked her head at him, Willam style.
    Karth groaned. “Well, ye've got the damned symbol of their God burned inna yer skin, lass, it don't surprise me none.”
    Anna's eyes widened. “Which God, Karth?”
    Karth looked down at her, and said softly, as if the God might hear and turn to look. “Demaius, Lass. Ye've got the Divided son on yer back.”

...Anyone I know get the reference? Hehehe. 
I am finally writing about that world, in a context that tells a story, other then just speaking and rolling dice. Wish me luck!

Saturday, November 19, 2016

A Poem.

Nothing is bright anymore.
The sun shines dim in the sky
The opportunity that knocks only scrapes there
like the bony hands of barren trees.
A shining shimmer that gleams in my eye
is more the pallor of a shark's
the dead black, hunter black, monster.

Nothing is bright anymore.
Imagined blossoms in the heart
The vivid feelings once exploding
Now subdued to uneventful embers.
They give no light, barely warm me, and glow in mockery.
No matter how I poke at them, they shiver and die
And sometimes I wish they would.

Nothing is bright anymore.
There is only a layer of gray here
No dance could call me back, if I danced.
No fairy tale ending, no carriage and prince
No glorious sunset calls to me there.
I rule in a kingdom of only gray.
And all my dreams; my willing slaves & subjects.

Monday, October 24, 2016


I think I am suffering from some pretty severe Ennui; or as says: A feeling of utter weariness and discontent resulting from satiety or lack of interest; boredom.

I have no true reason to be unhappy. Not really. But then I think of all these things. Like how I never go out. How I haven't been dancing in years. YEARS. A thing that brought light to my nights, spring in my step, made me feel powerful and beautiful. Gone now.

I wish I wrote more too. But I think of why I write. WHY. What an odd question for me. I enjoy telling stories. I do. But the crux about telling stories is that you have to have someone to tell them to, don't you? And who am I going to tell these tales to? It is hard to get motivated about something no one really gives two shits about, isn't it?

I want a dog. I need more money. I wish I had a real date in the past seven years. I wish I had friends here. People to talk to, hang out with, get coffee, see a girly movie, do make-up, play games, anything with. I wish I was back in New York on Reilly Road in a house that is no longer mine. I wish I could lose this pesky 15-lb extra I had gained. I wish my eyes stopped getting worse. I wish there were no bugs in my apartment. I wish I had a bed frame. I wish I slept better, had better dreams, could lucid dream, had another dream about flying at the very least. I hate dreaming about failure.

I'm sort of finding it difficult to muster a real smile. I feel like every one I have is sort of forced, and that someone, anyone, when they look into my eyes when I offer that plastic grin will just know and call me out and put me on the spot. Sometimes I kind of just cry a little for no good reason other then its actually something I can feel.

Not sure why I'm writing this on here. Probably because all of this would have had my wrist aching if I had used a paper journal. Though I love love love paper journals, can't get enough of them.


Saturday, October 1, 2016

SO Very Sad

I remember when I was a kid, I would watch all sorts of movies and I would sigh with longing at their stunning plot-lines and romances and all the adventures and happy endings.  Sometimes, if it was really good, I would cry a little, wanting so badly to grow up so I could have an exciting and adventurous life. I couldn't wait. I knew wonderful things were in store for me.

When I was a teenager and a college kid, I would smile at them wistfully, be inspired by the characters and the villains. I would start to see hints and flavors of these stories in my own life. I would cry less frequently. I would see them as lessons or even sources. I would try to translate the aspect of them into my writing. That sort of thing.

Now I just watch them and everything sucks because I'm 31 and everything is really lame in the world. This world is such a royal shit hole that I can't even really see silver linings or positive sides anymore. It's all mired in a population that doesn't know what it wants and that hates everything.

So now when I see movies I like they only make me sad. Because I know they're just pretend. And life is never that good, is it?

Never is.