Tabs! :D

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Mia's Amazing Contest!!

Mia is having a contest and I meant to tell ya'll earlier because it is super cool, but the Sis and I were working on this:

Zombie Kittens!!

So... It took me a little while to get everything squared away.

But Quick! Before it's too Late! Go enter her Contest...



The Story of the Zombie Kitten

Once upon a time there was a Zombie Kitten. He looked like a regular Zombie Kitten. He had decaying, grey skin, and pale white eyes, and a little pink tongue, and sharp little teeth. However, he was not an entirely normal Zombie Kitten. This Kitten, named Zomg, liked brains like all the other Zombie Kittens, but he also liked jam. All kinds of jams. He liked blueberry jams, orange jams, strawberry jams, brain jam... He even adored a good marmalade.

Everyone made fun of Zomg. They said he wasn't really a Zombie Kitten at all, that he was just pretending. Feeling awfully sad, Zomg lyrched dejectedly away from the group of Zombie Kittens who were calling him nasty names, and he found a good willow tree to hide under. He thought it appropriate, because Willow Trees represented crying, and that was exactly what he felt like. Crying. He didn't want to be called a wuss, or an Un-Real Zombie Kitten, so he sucked in a breath, and was just about to strut proudly back out of the hanging branches of the willow tree when...

"Oh my pleasant tailfeathers, I thought you were a flying monkey."

Something fell out of the tree, landed in front of Zomg, and started talking straight at him. It was a strange looking kitten, all white, faintly sparkling, and with fang-like teeth.

Zomg tilted his head. "You don't have tailfeathers, and how in every grave did you think I was a flying monkey? I don't have wings and..." Then Zomg gasped. *GASP!* "You are a Vampire Kitten!" Zomg screamed.

"Well, of course," said the Vampire Kitten. "My name's Edwardio III, and sometimes people think I'm a frog, because I like to paint myself green late at night. What's your name?"

"Zomg," Zomg said quietly, not sure what to think of such a strange creature. But Zomg was an honest creature, so he decided to sputter out: "I like jam!" He figured that painting oneself green was much less odd than liking jam.

"I like jam too!" squealed Edwardio III. "We shall be best friends!"

And so they were. Edwardio III would paint himself green while Zomg would try a new jam, and they had the most lovely time together. The End.

(Weird. Nobody died 0_O)

Sunday, July 18, 2010

The Death Scene You've Been Waiting For

Today is Blogfest day!! *whistles and throws confetti in ecstasy* And in honor of the day I have this LINK to a blog post I read the other day about death, that I thought was particularly interesting. Plus there's this LINK to the list of other people doing blogfests. (At least, I hope it is. If not there will be trouble.) Just so you know, I will be in Canada over the weekend to attend Polaris, so it will take me a few days to actually get around to reading everyone else's stuff, but don't worry. I will.

Carrying on!

At first, I was going to just take a scene out of my wip's, but then I realized that all of my deaths are way too important, and would give away Huge plot moments, and I wasn't comfortable doing that. So I hemmed, and I hawed, and Cyan hopped out of the blue and attacked my face with ideas and out came this really bizarre little scene. I hope you like! (Oh, and just so you know, critical comments are welcome. As long as you're nice about it, I'm fine. I like to learn how to be better, so...) Oh! And I couldn't think of a name for the one girl, and the only one I coud think of was Tess, because of Tessa, so I named her after Tessa (sorry about the way your character... Well, you'll find out.)

“Hello.” Cyan hopped into the kitchen, waved profusely at my friend (his name don’t matter). Then she grinned. “Good-bye!” With a small twist of her wrist the knife was in his body, and then it was out. His eyes bugged wide and his mouth made a desperate attempt at talking. Didn’t last long. Soon he was on the floor, as dead as the others I had watched her kill.

She proceeded to try and check her reflection in the knife, but it’s hard to do that when a knife is still dripping with fresh blood. Cyan frowned a little bit, brushed off the knife on my (dead) friend’s already ugly shirt, and then fussed with her perfectly curly, way too blonde, hair.

“Hey, Cyan. Was that necessary?”

She gave me a quick glance, her eyes widened. “Oh, Fred, I didn’t see you.” I hate it when she calls me Fred. She knew it too. “How awful.” Way too quickly she was standing next to me, smelling faintly of lavender and peppermint, a heady mixture that I don’t like none.

“You gotta’ keep killing?”

“Of course.” She laughed, like I was some awful comedian and she was some polite person trying to make me feel better. I don’t think it helped. At all.

“Jus’ don’t touch Tess.”

“I touch who I want,” Cyan whispered, gave me a peck on the cheek while brushing her knife against the other side of my face. One cheek was left with lipstick, the other one with blood. “Don’t forget it. Buh-bye!” She waved and flounced outta’ the room. I glared at her.

Always left me to clean up her messes. It took a darn too long time to find a proper place to hide the body she had left behind. And by the time that was done, it was too late to meet Tess. I hated Cyan, but I guess that’s just repeating the obvious, isn’t it?

And I would’ve gone on hating her, and hating her, and not doing nothing about it. Until about three weeks later. Now, I can’t go into detail about what Cyan is, or even why she does what she does (mainly ‘cause I’d be killed and I ain’t a fan of me being dead) but I can tell you this. We’ve been friends a good amount of time. Sure, we don’t particularly like each other, but that don’t stop us from being on friendly terms. I left her friends alone (a’ course, she didn’t have many, but was that my fault?) and in return I expected the same favor.

I forgot. She don’t have no brain in her messed up little brain.

It had been a long day of working for the bosses (again, can’t tell or I’ll be offed) and I opened Tess’ apartment door. I was all ready to here about her day, to cuddle up next to her while we sipped at hot tea (for her) and coffee (for me). Sure, it don’t sound like something a tough guy like me would like, but shut yer trap and open yer mind. Tess did that to you. And I’m still man enough to torture your face off, so don’t breathe a word or your fingers will end up in dome garbage disposal device.

I kicked off my shoes at the door, since she liked her carpets to be clean and all. And I called out, “Hey, Tess, Rick’s here.” (My name’s Frederick, but most everyone calls me Rick, ‘cept Cyan but you already know she’s whacked out and hates me, so no need to repeat, right?)

She didn’t answer, which wasn’t like her at all. I knocked on the wall by the kitchen, ‘cause she was real particular about the kitchen, and always ragged on me about how I had to knock first, or else she’d jump from surprise and knock herself out with a pot. So I did. I knocked and then I stopped because I saw Tess, and she wasn’t knocked out from a pan, or nothing. It was worse. Much worse.

She were dead.

Blood was dried and matted around her pretty lil’ head, her face was more white than brittle ice, and her eyes were open and staring at me like little glass marbles.

I knelt to the ground, whispering her name, lookin’ like some mangy of a mutt. It don’t matter. Nothing did right then. I crawled over to her, pulled her into my lap, got blood all over my ratty jeans, and I wouldn’t stop muttering her name. She didn’t answer none. It’s hard to, when you’re dead. I blubbered like a cow, still didn’t matter none.

But then I saw how she had died. It wasn’t the head wound, that musta’ come before, ‘cause it wasn’t deep enough to have killed her. There was a hole in her stomach, the same shape as Cyan’s knife.

I was going to kill that good-for-nothing daughter of a would-be thug. But first I had to clean up Tess, wrap her up in one of her brightly patterned afghans. Then I buried her, and tried to cry over her all proper, but all my grief was gone and I only wanted one thing more.


Avatars Created with Dream Avatar

Friday, July 16, 2010


The other day I was thinking about loglines for my story.

Yes, yes, I know I don't even have an agent yet. What's that? I'm not even published. Pshah. Whatever. I have way too much of Amarilla's personality running through me right now to worry about that. (No, she's not another personality of mine, she's a character so shut up. See?! I tell you, she's all over the place. I would never normally tell you to shut up, but there I did. Blah.)

So instead of trying to edit my book so I can query it. (Which, by the way, I am dying to do, because I just found the most amazing literary agency ever, and I am dying to query the one dude because he is awesomesauce, and I'm hoping desperately that he'll actually like my book. No. LOVE my book, and want to publish it all over the world, but I'm not ready yet, and I'm cursing that fact. Of course, I shouldn't be blogging, so that I can fix that problem, but, ah, well.)

Oh. I wrote a fragment up there, didn't I? Sorry about that. As I was saying, instead of trying to edit I was trying to come up with loglines. Most were stupid and pathetic, like this:

If you think being stalked is a fantastical dream of floating gossamer strands, try being followed by Obadiah spake-man, and you'll change your mind faster than it takes a potato to rot on a windowsill.


Scotch is a person, not an alcohol, and she does not like being stalked by Spakes, even if she needs on particular Spakes help, and even if without that one particular Spakes help, her two best friends will surely died a horrible, horrible DEATH!


Scotch and Obadiah are not in love, you freaks! ( <-- Scotch wrote that one herself. Or at least, she would've if she was real.)


Once upon a time there was a Spake, then Scotch came along, and the world ended. (Not only is this one awful, it's a lie)


Forget about peanut butter, Scotch and Obadiah end up in situations much stickier, and much less yummilicious.


Vampires are over-rated, and Spakes have never been written about, how many people can I offend in a one sentence, run-on, fragmentary, logline that doesn't make.


(my personal fav, as well as Amarilla's)

Scotch is being stalked (creep!) by a mythologically real creature (a Spake) and she needs to learn to trust him (yeah, right) before her friends are brutally wounded.

They are so much fun! But now I feel bad, because I really need to edit. *sigh* Fine, I'll go be boring. Have loads of fun without me, okay?

*scampers off*

*scampers back*

Here's PIE!

It's Pecan Pie CAKE! :D
*is famished*
*must eat*

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Before Publishing...

My friend was asking me for advice the other day about looking for agents. Now, I don't really think of myself as an expert, especially with such people around as Elana Johnson and Nathan Bransford, but I have done a bit of research so the idea of being helpful just about made my day a bit more sunshiney. This, of course, would've been a whole lot better if it wasn't already a thousand degrees over here, but still. Worth it.

Thus, I have decided to share my advice with you all.

A) Don't get published yet. Yup. Pretty much the first thing I have to say. I totally agree with other Smart People that before a Writer/Author person gets published they should first Enjoy the Freedom they have. Think about it. You get to write whatever you want, whenever you want (within reason), without demands, or pressure, or having to write outlines or anything. It's like being single. Sure, married life can be just swell, but it comes with a whole lot of responsibility. And unlike with marriages nowadays, it's much harder to 'divorce' yourself from publishing a book. So party with your unpublished book and make sure you're ready for the Crazy that follows getting published. Yeah, yeah, yeah... What do I know? It's not like I'm published, and it's not like I'm following my own advice. But that doesn't mean someone out there shouldn't be listening to this sound advice. Just because I'm crazy doesn't mean you should be too.

2) Research Agents: This includes knowing their name, what Agency they work with, what books they have helped get published. I like to check such books out from the library to see if I like them. Because if I like them, then the agent and I might actually have tastes in common. This, of course, means that you cannot go around querying everyone in the universe. But wait! Don't forget to find out the agents favorite color, so that you can use that as your Query letter font color. Plus, finding ways to bribe them is always nice. Or, adding in extra tidbits in your query letter like this: "I saw you at the grocery store the other day (even though we live in different states) and think that you look fab in pink. Even if it was a frayed, disgusting, robe."

3) Get a blog. I'm serious. There is so much information out there available to you through blogs... It's insane. Although... If you're reading this you probably already have a blog. So. This is a pointless point. Moving on!

D) Become a part of every networking site possible. Goodreads, Facebook, Jacketflap, Lunch, Twitter... So many that your brain falls out from the madness! Okay, okay, I kid. Only be part of the things that you can handle. If you can handle everything on the planet, then forge ahead. If you can't, don't kill yourself.

E) Buy (or capture and tame) a strange animal. Like an armadillo, or Zombie Kittens (more on that at a later time), or platypus, or an arrdvark, or a fairy/pixie (though they'll probably kill you or curse you to always eat frogs), albatrosses, hyenas, large unfriendly dragons, invisible purple godzilla monsters, buffalo, manatees... The list goes on! (My co-worker can't stop naming them now, she's so excited...flamingoes, penguins [Mr. Popper's Penguins!], camels, alpacas, zedonk.) It will help you be more creative and make you more unique. Plus, you can mention that in your query letter, because agents love useless information.

6) Know your genre. If you think your genre is "Pizzaz" I promise you, you will not find a (legit) agent who represents the genre "Pizzaz." Also, do not say you have a 'Historical Fantasy Literary Woman's fiction, with a twist of Suspence and Horror and Thriller and definitely a Mystery in there somewhere.' Not unless you want Literary Agents to throw invisible darts at your non-existent head. And you head will be non-existent because they will have blown it up with their mind powers. And yes, agents have mind powers. That's why I'm becoming one.

*Some of this may be written seriously, while others may or may not be sarcastic. If you can't tell the difference, throw pies in my general direction. Mmm... pies.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

I Think I had Sugar When I Wrote This?

Oh my sugarcane! I totally forgot how to blog!

No. Seriously. I was writing stories and creating time lines, but every time I thought about blogging my brain went ZWAP! "Blogging? What is that? That sounds foreign and hard and difficult."

And then today I finally was able to read some blogs and it was like remembering how to ride a bike with another ZWAP! I remembered "Oh! That's blogging. That still sounds foreign and hard and difficult, but I will be foreign and hard and difficult, so we will match."

Okay. Maybe I didn't think that word for word, but you can pretend.

Oh! Today I heard a magical compliment!

First things first, I finished the first (short) draft of Cinnamon and Calamus: or Why You Shouldn't Trust Spakes and I sent it to some peeps. One person was my mum. And guess what she asked me???

"Did you write this, or did ElvishVampireHobbit?" (Only, she used my friend's real name, because my mum actually knows my friends' names because she is cool like that, and she's not creepy enough to know them by their blogging names)

And then I spazzed out!

You see, the main girl is named Scotch, and she is based on ElvishVampireHobbit. If ElvishVampireHobbit was scooched over into a side reality, she would be Scotch. So I wanted her to NOT sound like me at all, but like my friend. And my mum wasn't sure if I had written it, or if my friend had.

WIN! I got the voice down! Hoorah! :D

I was so worried it would sound too much like me, and my stalkerish tendencies had gone completely to waste.

You see, stalking people is good for some things. I watch people, pay attention to what words they use and stuff. Especially if I'm basing a character off of them, I get really weird. I keep their texts and analyze them, I hang out with them just so I can see what kind of faces they make, or whether or not they have weird finger twitches. YES I AM A FREAK! But it helps me write stories so pshah, it's okay. Plus, I only stalk people when I have permission. Usually. Ahem.

Enough sounding like a freak. I am going to go and pretend to be productive. Charge!

This is pretending to be productive

This is charging.
I have no idea why this is exciting, but it is!