masquerading as a man with a reason

I'm absolutely obsessed with this image at the minute.

I was saving an update until I could get my new layout up & running but that’s turned into rather more of a drama than first anticipated. But, thanks to the incredible genius that is my brother (biased? Me?) I now have my own hosting, I just purchased my new domain name & I’ve been promised a schmick Wordpress theme as a layout. The header I’m working on, but it’s meant the entire issues been almost resolved. Finally. I hate leaving things hanging. So, keep your eyeballs peeled for a new address coming up pretty soon!

I’ve decided to take part in (ok, slavishly follow) Steph Bowe’s idea of visual inspiration for my second book, The Rising. So I’ll be posting images that are currently inspiring me for The Rising. Some of them are absolutely haunting. I wish I’d picked up on visual inspiration sites like weheartit.com so much earlier. They’ll be interspersed with regular posts. I’m quite excited about it. I think I’m a voyeur at heart (not that kind of voyeur)

On the 25th October, tune your eyeballs to paperbackdolls.com where I’ll be guest blogging to review Zombie Blondes! I’m so glad I got chosen to review on there & it’ll be great for my writing credits. Plus Paperback Dolls are just an awesome site, ran by women who clearly, like me, read far too much. Zombie Blondes is all kinds of win too. I have other writing credits on the go too & you’ll hear more about those as they come to fruition.

Just joined Goodreads. You can find me on there under Emma Butler. You can submit writing on there, which I only just discovered. I uploaded an excerpt of Anubis from The Rising & am just about to go and check if there’s any feedback. I’m not sure whether that says I’m curious or obsessed?

carry on my wayward son

Saw this on Steph Bowe's site & thought it was a brilliant idea. My current inspirations for The Rising:










In other news - new blog layout coming soon!

she only smokes when she drinks

Dreams do not come true, this much I have learnt. Disney films have lied to you

Actually they do, I just really liked the line.

Just discovered Rimmel's 'Your Majesty' nail varnish colour. Cant believe its taken me 24 years to find it, has to be my perfect colour. Looks like I dripped my nails in diamontes!So much win.

For anyone wanting inspiration, you have to check out weheartit.com . It's a website where people contribute photos of anything and everything. I've been addicted to it for about the past week & its amazing. Because of The Rising I've been searching 'Italy' and 'Mexico' and coming up with some beautiful images that just wow me. And then I found one particular image that gave me the ending of The Rising. Totally. Completley. Anubis and all, here's the ending. Just from an image. You must check it out!

Feeling rather ‘writerly’ today. I think its reading Margaret Atwood that does it. Spent this morning driving round the uni & surrounding streets swearing like my hero Saint as car after car filled every available parking spot. How do so many cars get there so fast? When I finally found one, it involved a trek through the Botanic gardens to actually get to uni. So, being of a very lazy disposition I decided to stop and read my new Atwood novel at a bench. Covered in sunlight, looking up over the pages of Lady Oracle, which is an amazing thing in itself, I’ll never understand how Ms Atwood can nail life so perfectly, I watched the trees sway in the wind. Until of course, my reverie was broken by a seagull wanting my salad. When I waved a fringed thong at it, it cawed, or whatever they do. Evil little beggar. After that I packed Lady Oracle away and went on into uni.

The curse of prac has finally been lifted – for how can we be creative when we all look the same? I no longer have to wear that bright blue uniform and march in step. So today I celebrated by wearing denim leggings (jeggings? Whats the difference?) A black tulip dress with sparkles on the shoulders bought solely because it reminded me of Blair Waldorf, my latest obsession. A neutral loose cardigan cause Spring has not yet sprung properly and tried a new hairstyle. Of which I’m incredibly, stupidly proud. I tried to copy Serena Van Der Woodsen when she goes to that White party, with the silver scarf wound through her hair. I picked up my own sparkly silver scarf and attempted to wind it through my hair similarly. Forgetting Serena’s hair is much longer. So I wound it round and tucked it through my bun, then let it fall and the result is half Serena – or enough that people will recognise it and not think I forgot where my neck was – and half vecchio Signora. The effect put me in mind of the Signora leaning over the fence, bawling her dark haired, wifebeater wearing husband out for drinking the grappa and playing poker on the steps. So I look creative as well as feeling it.

left me to that solitude that suits abtruser musings:

When I was little I had this tent. A triangular, green one that must have stayed in our backyard for weeks. I also had this kitchen set, which came with a toaster & fake toast, pans, plates, fake vegetables, the whole shebang. I spent whole days in that tent playing.

My dog, a gorgeous German Shepherd called Zac used to get sick of being left out of the game, having to be where everyone else was. That dog came in the tent and sat there for hours on end, patiently being fed fake toast and made to enact stories. A breed that’s trained to kill, sent into war zones etc laying quietly in a tent and listening to me talk. Later, I decided to grow flowers & made little snowpea pots. I lavished so much attention on those flowers my dog got jealous and smashed them. When I was a little older, he ran onto the road & was hit by a car. Every other car on the road stopped bar one speeding woman. If I ever meet that woman again I’ll punch her in the face. Zac started crying and both my mom & I started running for him. I got stopped before I reached him but I’ll never forget when my parents brought him to school the next day after he came home from the vets. His eyes were filled with blood, he had cuts & bruises everywhere, but he jumped up and wagged like nothing had ever happened. Later he chased Mick & I along the tiles, forgot to brake & hit the wall. He was present at every Christmas, knew every time I was crying & spent so many hours alone with me in my Dad’s workshop.

He passed away on Monday at 15 years old. He couldn’t get up & wouldn’t eat. And Zac ate everything. I mean, everything. Chocolate, steaks, bananas, bagels you name it. My brother took him for a walk and Zac couldn’t. I went to my first day of prac and couldn’t shake this feeling, like a presentiment, that it wasn’t going to all end okay. Zac had been ill before, been weak but he’d always gotten better. But something in me knew, the same way something in me knew when my kitten died. So when I came home to find my family sitting in some council of war to tell me Zac had gone it was a confirmation of what I already knew. I was praying on the drive home from prac, praying Zac’d be okay and even as I did I knew he was gone because something didnt feel right. I don’t want to say how much I cried, how much writing this is making me tear up. He was an awesome dog. He didnt need Cesar Milan because he was perfect.

We’re not a family that can live without a dog for very long and the hole that was left was awful. My parents went to see a German Shepherd puppy Thursday and I honestly didn’t think they’d get her. My mom was so low, I thought she’d see them and come back home again, saying they weren’t right, didn’t fit, whatever. I’ve found most breeders don’t produce pedigree Germans either so I expected they’d be crossed with something and Mom’d pick it up. This is the woman who swore over and over to Zac if he didn’t quit attacking her flowers she’d kill him.

So I came home on Thursday expecting nothing. I opened the door to see my Dad holding a beautiful German Shepherd puppy girl. She has a black face and huge paws. Nothing will ever fill Zac’s spot but she’s so quickly carved out her own spot in my heart. Her head is the perfect size for kisses. Little Meg has a bark far too big for her and is already almost perfectly trained. She walks beautifully on the lead, she sits, she knows to go outside, she’s the ‘perfect energy level’ for us (thank you Cesar.)
This morning I was getting ready, finding the conditioner & looked down to see Meg sat in my room watching me. I gave her a pat & went to find my toothbrush. She was there at my side, sat down patiently, looking up at me & the vanity. We just wrapped Father’s Day presents & tired of not getting any attention, she came in and helped. Well, if you can call helping chewing on everything in sight, licking an ugg boot and licking photo frames.

I know this isn’t my usual post about progress on my writing & Black Rose but I needed to share this. A pet holds such a special place in your heart. I had Zac for 15 years and while it’s a silly idea, I had the idea he was immortal. I didn’t think anything would ever happen, especially after he survived an idiotic woman with a car. Meg hasn’t replaced him, if she had I wouldn’t be tearing up writing this. Meg is a whole other spot in my heart but I love her. I love the way a puppy looks at the world. Like everything is amazing & new. I love how she responds to my Cesar Milan commands, well, so far. And not without whingeing. I love how she came running for a hug and cuddled up on my shoulder just now. There’s nothing about her I don’t like. She’s a perfect, gorgeous, amazing dog. They show such beautiful unconditional love that it makes me stop and think. If we started thinking like a dog did, there’d be so much less crap in the world.

to the barricades of Heaven where I'm from

Barricades of Heaven - Jackson Browne.

There’s a reason behind what we do. There’s a reason why writers write, why painters paint & a whole host of others. I found out the reason why people work in mental health this week. There’s a patient on the ward I’m at, who came in suicidally depressed, previous suicidal attempts, with both suicidal and homicidal ideation. She’s a wee woman who doesn’t really take up much room. I had to go through her belongings , de rigueur for mental health, feeling like the worlds’ worst cad as I pawed through her stuff, plucking needles (sewing, not IV) from her bag. She sat in the chair, slumped in it rather, like all the world had fallen in on her shoulders. She didn’t care about anything I was saying & the inane chatter you use to cover up long silences just echoed. I’ve never seen anyone so fundamentally depressed. Anyone who thinks depression is fiction should have taken a look at this woman, it was written in every bone of her body.

As the day went by she laid on her bed, turned her face to the wall and that was it. She cried and slept. A little later she came out of her room but she curled up on a chair and went to sleep again. When she didn’t sleep she cried. I felt sorry for her, it physically hurt to know someone was in so much pain they could react like that. The next day her depression began to annoy me because it wasn’t changing. She didn’t even seem like she was trying. It frustrated me because I was making all the effort and she wasn’t doing anything in return. I wanted to grab her and ask her if anyone was home. Obviously I didn’t.

On the third day I was chatting with another patient, discussing how writing is cathartic. She started to listen in. I was talking about a stream of consciousness & how interesting it would be to read some of theirs. She asked what a stream of consciousness was & startled me. I wasn’t expecting her to initiate a conversation. When I told her, she smiled, laughed and kept talking to me. It wasn’t the fact that she’d kept talking, it was that smile and that laugh that got me. It was like the sun coming out. All of a sudden I could see the person underneath the mental illness, all of a sudden there was hope. All of a sudden someone lifted the cloud on depression & I realised that was the reason why people work in mental health – to see that smile. I’ve never been so impacted by a smile before. It made everything worthwhile to see her grin at me.

I’m a student nurse so I’ve done a few pracs by now. I’ve seen babies born (which is NOT all flowers and beatnik love. There’s blood EVERYWHERE.) I’ve stood at the foot of a patients bed and tried to keep from crying when I knew the diagnosis and they didn’t, not yet. I’ve talked to a man who died three days later. I’ve watched pregnant women with needle marks up their arms ask for a cigarette and valiantly tried not to strangle them ( I ended up walking away from the patient & refusing to deal with her) but nothing hit me as much as that beautiful smile on my patient. That’s the reason why we do it. Everything made sense.

It made me realise there’s a reason behind it. I love mental health because I love that smile. I love writing because it feels like its woven through me. And in moments when I read back over my stuff & wonder if its any good I think about what Paul said to the Ephesians – ‘live the life God called you to live’. I want to live a life of purpose, my friend Denise asked a question on Facebook recently – were we living lives you could tell stories about? I want the life of purpose where you can tell stories. A purpose is a reason. My reasons are falling into place.

Oh & the fact I get to spend hours with a hot gangster doesn’t hinder either.

I want to love you with all the madness in my heart

Beautiful isnt it? Thinking of changing the banner over to this.

you and me honey, baby we were born to run

Under the pretence of ‘research’ I bought the best Mob movie ever made – Goodfellas. Stars Robert De Niro, Ray Liotta & Joe Pesci. Directed by Scorcese. It just doesn’t get any better than that! Or, it could, but only if Al Pacino was in it. I have the flu & am kind of drugged up on Sudafed so my plan is to tuck up & watch Goodfellas. It’ll also help with Santangelo & Vin.

Speaking of the two gangsters, The Rising is coming along nicely. The progress is different from HN but I think it’s because I have no preconceived notion of The Rising, it’s just spilling out. I’m hoping some heavy Mafia lore might inspire me too. It’s just odd at the minute because I know what to write & how I want it when they arrive at the hospital but right now, they’re driving there and Grayson’s revelation seems to be taking forever.

Along with Goodfellas I have True Blood S2. And Eric Northman/Alexander Skaarsgard is seriously becoming an inspiration for Saint. I think it’s in the way he holds himself & the way he keeps all his emotions in check. Northman is a pretty awesome vampire. Don’t get me wrong, the Vampire Lestat is good, but the Vampire Eric is all kinds of amazing. There’s an underlying menace to everything he does that I just love. He’s definitely an inspiration.

Speaking of inspiration, I sat down to read Unholy Magic by Stacia Kane this arvo in the freezing cold sunshine. Bathurst is the only place on Earth with freezing sunshine. I love her writing anyway, but I started reading it & it inspired me. Not inspired as in slavishly copy and just change names around, but inspired me with Saint. So far – and I’m 5 chapters in – it’s an awesome book! I’m most definitely a Terrible shipper though. Lex is a fascinating character but Terrible. Terrible’s perfect. Right down to the description of the car. I also love the way Ms. Kane does dialogue. The language in the Downside series is not strictly perfect English but it works so well for the world that she’s created. That’s what I hope to achieve with Saint & Vin.

I would desperately love to write more of The Rising this evening but thanks to my lovely flu that I’ve been landed with I have what feels like a needle of pain right behind my left eye. So I’m going to go to bed as suggested & watch Goodfellas. Expect a post about how great the Mafia is sometime in the near future!

Also, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend. Nothing to do with my writing, more to do with my fashion sense. Since watching Gossip Girl S1 my wardrobe appears to be taking on a distinctly Blair like appearance. So much so that as I was browsing the shops today I found myself holding a top & thinking I’m sure Blair had one like that. I know Serena is meant to be more popular & I do like her, truly I do, but Blair holds more interest for me. I think it’s the whole Queen Bee mentality. I see shades of Ronnie I think.
& now off to bed...cough...cough...splutter...insert gratuitous sympathy here:

under the benediction of the neon lights

Just submitted to Samhain EPublishing!

& I may be in the coldest place on Earth. Immensely beautiful, but cold.

A rural mental health placement was so most definitely not what I had in mind this session. I am not a country girl. Granted I’m not a city girl either. I’m suburbia. Green spaces but with the shops not too far away. Where I am now is 4 ½ hours from where I usually live. I live on the coast & can see mountains whenever I lift my head. Right now I’m way out west & all I can see is open space. The town is about three streets wide, but they’re gorgeous old buildings built in the 1930’s and still perfectly maintained. I should have some photos to post soon!

My plan for the next 2 weeks is thus: work on assignments. It’s Day 2 and I haven’t even opened my uni folder yet. I will though. I swear. Pinkie promise. I also wanted to update everything & that I have actually followed through on from this blog post to my fanfic. And my last thing was to write. While supposedly paying attention on the ward today I could hear Santangelo rattling around in my head.

I did spend some of yesterday working on Unction, the first in my Guardians series. It was really interesting because what came out on the paper wasn’t what I’d thought would come out on the paper. My main character appears to be much more human than I’d intended. Perhaps it’s a direct response to Ronnie Hall? I kind of love her already. Don is yet to appear but the Guardians kind of put themselves in a Prologue when I’d never intended them to have one.

Stephen King – of whom I speak too much about – talked about over-plotting in On Writing, which I thought was really interesting. He mentioned how he thought writing should never be over plotted because it became more like an instruction manual and lost some of its heart. I particularly loved how he spoke about characters coming to life and doing magic on the page, how he enjoyed writing because he could watch it happen firsthand. He said that when you write, you’re the first reader. I truly believe that. Santangelo is a blessing for me to write because I don’t plot him, I don’t do anything. He just turns up and rocks the Kasbah. Unction started off completely differently to how I thought but I love the way it’s going. It makes much more sense and somehow manages to explain the paranormal set up without going “It’s the year 2010 and...” Let the muse play!

you know me too much to know me; or not at all

‘Do you think I am trying to make people accept me? No, God is the One I am trying to please. Am I trying to please people? If I still wanted to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ’

Galatians 1:10

I entered 2 writing contests this week. One is over at Novel Novice, to win a copy of Cassandra Clare’s new book. I have her Mortal Instruments series & they’re amazing. You just sit down and get lost in them. The other wasn’t really a contest if I’m honest. I’m reading Stephen King’s ‘On Writing’, which is quite possibly one of the best things I’ve ever read. Halfway through he gives a brilliant writing exercise that got me thinking. He subverts it & then asks the reader to write it, then email it to him at his website. So that’s what I’m going to do. He may or may not answer it, if he does I can promise there’ll be at least one moment of fangirling, but I’m really enjoying entering these different contests and writing as much as possible.

The contest over at NN asks you to write a steampunk short. I had no idea what the genre was but I thought it had a very cool sounding name. Wikipedia, who is responsible for most of my university work, gave me a definition and that was it, I was hooked. Steampunk is taken from the 1800’s or thereabouts, the age of steam. It asks you to either write from that era alone, or write from that era but subvert the technology. I’d subvert myself given half the chance so I thought – awesome! I started writing the short by accident. I had a tutorial where the tutor insisted we watch a video that made me want to emigrate, then proceeded to inform us we should all buy a socialist newspaper. Halfway through I realised if I didn’t occupy my hands I was apt to stab the woman in the eye with a pen. So I took out my notebook and started writing.

The result was Tick Tock, my steampunk short. I thought, while ignoring political anathema hurling its way against slothful students’ ears, that it would be a romance. Um, no. A little old man came into view, shuffling about. He’d spent 10 years on a great invention made of steam. A clockwork, steam powered man. A knock-off robot if you want. A shady character bent on stealing said robot entered and what followed was a neat little story I’m quite proud of. It ended in a murder, which left me wondering why violence shades all my work. Perhaps my muse is psychopathic. You can find Tick Tock attached to the bottom of this post, or on the right hand sidebar. Steampunk is most definetly my kind of genre and something I can see myself working in, in future.

The Stephen King short is a basic plot outlined in his text, which funnily enough, also involves a murder (see? It’s not just me). I’m still thinking about it, waiting for the characters to settle themselves in my mind – my writing is primarily character driven rather than plot driven. But I’m excited about that too. The male figure is pretty much already down and it’ll be interesting to write. Of course if King does reply and assuming it’s not – please stop clogging my inbox before I set the cops on you – then I probably won’t shut up for a long time.

I try to make time each day to spend with God, in prayer, reading my Bible. Tonight I was reading Galatians, which is amazing in itself. The above quote hit me right between the eyes and made me take another look at how I lived my life, about how and who I wrote for. But while I’m reading I kept thinking about Unction, then shaking my head and going back to the Bible. Surely it’s sacrilegious to drift off like that? Anyway, I was thinking about my two protagonists & where they were going. In true sledgehammer out of the blue moments style, another character appeared. He brought with him an entire plot. And I mean an entire one. Unction & Guardians was developing into a series anyway, but this bolt just explained the entire thing to me. It brought a whole other mythology I hadn’t planned on adding and I can’t wait to see how things unfold. Although I do feel I should apologise to God, because it wasn’t exactly the best time to get the muse sticking his head up.

I wonder if anyone ever heard from their muse at a funeral? Or halfway through a court case? Or any other inappropriate places?

& you’ll be happy to know the extended synopsis resolved itself. I’d say I can’t wait to write that either but there’s far too much excitement in this post already. It puts me in mind of a manic pup.

there's a darkness on the edge of town:

I could have also called this ‘Why the Synopsis should be murdered with a stake through its heart’

Human Nature is being submitted to multiple agents & publishers over the next two weeks. One query went to Camerons’ Management just this morning. HN will also be sent to Ebook publishers (is it just me or are they more receptive to new authors?) and will continue its Australian & American agent search.

I have no idea why it wishes to refer to itself in the 3rd person.

Going to come right out and say it – I love this whole process. Not so much the querying, not so much the synopsis. Definetly not the synopsis, more on that later. But the whole process of getting your book out there, marketing, networking. I’ve met some truly awesome people and maybe I’m just a show off at heart, but I love marketing Human Nature. Promotion is definetly one of my favourite parts of this whole gig. The Facebook page, this website, Twitter. An Ebook publisher started following me on Twitter today & I about fell out of my chair. Of course I didnt, because that would have been undignified. Rebecca Leigh gave me a brilliant looking forum – the Romance Divas – to join & I daresay I’ll shamelessly promote myself there too. Thats more about networking though. And finding the answer to the question thats been plaguing me for a couple of weeks now.

Ebooks. They’re intriguing me. Ebook publishing is intriguing me and I’m seriously considering submitting Human Nature to some brilliant sounding Ebook publishers I’ve come across. I admit I have a massive desire to see Human Nature on the shelf at the local bookstore, to take it down and run my fingers through the pages, but at the same time am I missing something huge by not following Ebooks?

Back to synopsis. Whoever invented those...well...shame on you. I’ve discovered varying agents & publishers want different lengths, which is harder than it sounds. After condensing 190,000 words into a one page synopsis its like a nightmare trying to expand it back out to 3-4 pages. I wish there was some way we could just plonk my brain on the page and be like ‘there, see that? Thats it’. However I think plonking a brain on an agents’ desk would result in a mental hospital. Possibly also a rejection. Still, its a novel way of getting their attention. Dear Agent: My submission is in my brain. Enclosed is my pre-frontal cortex. Kindly don’t poke the hypothalamus.

Work’s also started on the 2nd book in the Black Rose series, The Rising. A prologue is done and the first chapter’s been re-done about a zillion times. First Maryse wanted to talk, then Vin. I’d complain but I read a quote that says ‘the muse comes when she wants. If you send her away again, she may not come back at all’. So I’m gonna be real hospitable here.

As another outlet for shameless self promotion of the Black Rose series, look out for the upcoming forum. I was inspired by a friends’ Facebook discussion page. Keep your eyes peeled for Secrets. I’d tell you more, but its a secret. Hah. See? I can get endless miles out of this shebang. Anyway, she inspired me to go ahead and create something for the Black Rose series. It’ll focus on Human Nature & The Rising, as well as my upcoming series, roughly titled Guardians. Stay on the edge of your seats. No not back...the edge.

Sky's been cleared by a good, hard rain; there's somebody callin' my secret name

See? Robert Downey Jr just loves Human Nature

I think it’s established I love Margaret Atwood & Negotiating With The Dead. There’s something so powerfully poetic in the way she describes writing. I’ve also found Norman Mailers’ The Spooky Art. The one book I’m missing & would so dearly love to find is Stephen Kings’ On Writing. I find it ridiculous I haven’t found it yet. I own practically every other thing he’s ever done, but not that. What intrigues me though is how these books have a similar concept of writing being ‘otherworldly’, spooky as Mailer puts it, involving a double like Atwood puts it, or that it has some fascination with death.

A friend of mine suggested on Human Nature’s Facebook page – join it if you haven’t already. There’s discussions and the like – that perhaps it was because it took a little out of the writer each time to write. Perhaps putting the words on paper draws from our own life force, or that we literally make it our blood, sweat and tears. The urge to write ‘beer’ instead of tears is overwhelming. This is due to an obsession with TNA Wrestling & the tag team Beer Money. There’s an untapped field of subliminal messaging there I tell you.

I appreciate the insight but I don’t find it drains me to write, or that it takes anything out of me to put something down on paper. A lot of people have said they find it amazing I wrote a book while studying a full time degree. The truth is, it’s my release. When I have to write 2500 words on childbirth, infarctions or why childbirth shouldn’t involve infarctions then it’s not being creative. Its regurgitating someone elses information and synthesising it. I’d come home, become an insomniac and write Human Nature. Maybe it was because there’s no word limit, maybe because no-one was insisting I reference or just because it’s something I have my whole life wound up in, but it was relaxing for me. It still is.

I recently read an interview with Sydney Somers about how she writes & why she does it. Her answer is probably the closest I’ve ever seen to my own. She explains that she ‘sees’ scenes, just like from a movie, they play out and she writes. I write in much the same way. I get flashes of scenes, or entire scenes that play out in front of me. I can press play or pause, zoom in or flip the camera to see someone’s’ face, their reaction etc, but the scene just appears. When I’m sat there actively trying to think, then I know it’s time to stop writing. It just doesn’t flow then. And I hear voices. In a completely sane way naturally. Don’t call the men in white coats just yet. I hear my characters, most notably Santangelo, like a voice spoken next to my ear. I really don’t have any control over it, when it comes or what happens. But listening to Santangelo & Ronnie got Human Nature completed and I couldn’t be happier with it.

Maybe that’s why I don’t think writing has to do with death
or drawing life from the writer like some kind of succubus. It calms me and inspires me to write. I see these things, these scenes in front of my eyes and my jobs’ to record them the best I can. Sometimes it can be frustrating, when you can hear the creaking floorboard but not describe it. When you know the expression on a man’s’ face but can’t replicate it, no matter how many words you use. Maybe it’s because of that, because it’s things that I see, that given to me, that the muse feeds, however you want to pass it by is fine with me, that I don’t feel it drains. It comes from somewhere else and I’m just the scribe.

I hold with Atwoods’ description still. While writing isn’t spooky to me like Mailer suggests, it holds an element of the dark & giving ‘over to the other’. I’ve sat and asked what I’m meant to be looking at and have locked off every other thought to open my mind up to the story. So it does seem like giving over to me. But not spooky. Revitalising.

Where the way is dark & the bullets cold;

My protagonist (look, a big writing word! My English teacher would be proud) taught me something recently.

Let me introduce him first of all. He’s 45. Italian-American. Dark hair, black eyes, whiskers from here to the dawn of Time & muscle bound. He’s profane & violent. A gangster & a sociopath. Santangelo De Saviero is not really the kind of guy who teaches anything, unless it’s how to meet your Maker, quickly. He’s his own voice.

I have an inspiration board – which is really a piece of canvas with a lot of pictures on it – that I have above my laptop. It faces me whenever I write and is visible from my bed, so it’s pretty much always in my line of vision. It’s covered with pictures of Saints’ face claims, quotes, lines from poems, images of Vin, Maryse, Ronnie and others. It also has a picture of the Vampire Eric for reasons I haven’t yet derived. I tend to look up at it a lot when I’m online because of the angle it’s at.

I keep telling people Saint is his own character, his own person and I just get to write him. When I sat staring at the board recently I realised he really is his own person. I can’t write something in there if he doesn’t like it. I can’t make him cry because he doesn’t. I can’t change him to suit me (although I adore him as he is) or anyone else.

So why do we change ourselves to suit everyone else?

If Santangelo, whom I love, can’t be changed without compromising who he is, if I can’t take something from him without removing him, then why is it okay for me to do that to myself? Why do we constantly check ourselves against other people and wonder if we’re doing okay? Recently someone came back into my life that I’d rather stayed out of it. Once I knew they were back, it kind of threw me. I wondered what this person would think if we met again. We probably will just because we have this common thread. I knew they wouldn’t ‘approve’ and it annoyed me. Why did I need them to approve? I don’t need anyone to approve Santangelo. I don’t care if people love him or hate him. I’d like you to love him ‘cause I’d like to sell a book someday, really I would. But if you don’t, he sure as hell won’t shed no tears over it. But if don’t need anyone to approve him, why did I care what this person thought of me?

I like me. I do. I’m a writer. I have an insane sense of humour that often sees me cracking myself up, leaving everyone else looking at me dumbfounded. I’m someone who loves Dr Who, Star Trek and any other kind of sci fi you throw my way. I get addicted to things like Watchmen & The Losers & Supernatural & True Blood. I read obsessively. Most of my room is a bookcase. I love wrestling. I grew up with it & it’s a part of my life. I love muscle cars. I don’t act very ladylike. I will wear heels until my feet bleed because they look good, who cares if I can’t actually walk. My music taste stopped in the 1970’s. I actually like poetry. I would rather watch an action or horror movie over a romance any day. I don’t tolerate deceit. I can’t stand when people promise one thing and do another. To me, it smacks of what Paul describes in the Bible. People whose faces and voices say they love God but people whose hearts are far from Him. I really have a problem with that. I try so very hard to be a good witness, to be someone whose walk & talk match. I don’t always make it. A lot of times I get angry, a lot of times I get frustrated. But what you see is real.

So it burns me when I see people who seem to have this whole double thing going on. This particular person is one of those. They may or may not actually live that double life but everything in their actions screams it. This person is not a person I want in my life, not someone I want influencing it and someone I would keep at arm’s length, if they had to be spoken to at all. So when I discovered I was stepping back, just because I didn’t want to come into contact with this person, it upset me. I was almost hiding because I didn’t want to talk to them, to say what my life was like or what I’d been up to because I didn’t want them to judge me like I knew they would.

Santangelo made me realise I was being a wimp. A lot of people in Human Nature don’t approve of the Mob Boss. A lot of people are extremely vocal about it. He pays attention to the person that cares about him and shuts out the rest because they don’t matter. I read somewhere that the people we spend the most time worrying about are not the people who’ll be there in the end. I’d been pouring worry and energy into this person because I was almost afraid to go show them who I was.

I thought about how I liked who I was. After November/December last year, when everything changed - it was like I finally stepped into the destiny God was holding out for me – I felt complete, like I’d picked up the missing piece of my personality. I do enjoy the morbid and the arcane because it feeds what I guess Margaret Atwood would call ‘the other me’. I wrote a book I loved a series I’m still writing, stories that play out like movies in front of my eyes. I met great new people and I actually enjoy learning how to promote my book and myself as a writer. I love who I am right now. A 23 year old – 24 in 31 days – who was destined for more. Yet I’m limiting myself, stepping back from this person because I was worried what they might say, their reactions, of what might hide behind the plastic smile. Santangelo made me front up to that, to realise that I couldn’t fully step into everything if I was still hiding.

To quote my Mafioso, ‘F*ck ‘em. And the horse they rode in on’.

Don’t let anyone stop you being who you are. Don’t put up with people who bring you down. Surround yourself with people you love and forget about the people who don’t. Those people might have to be in your life for whatever reason; it doesn’t mean they have to own your life. You’re always going to have haters. People who disapprove of you, of what you do, what you say, what you wear, what you write, what you draw, what you sing, how you do all that. You will never match up to what their expectation of you is. You don’t have to.

God made you unique. He carved your name on His hand. He didn’t carve you as a hyphen attached to someone else.

Be who you are.

The Ancient Mariner Defence

‘But still the fates will leave me my voice
& by my voice I shall be known’ Ovid

While trying to appear like I was actually doing something at work yesterday, Alex asked me how I wrote. After responding in my usual asinine way and saying “With a paper and pen” she repeated the question & said she didn’t know how someone made themselves sit down and write, why they would or what they’d write about. She put me on the spot & made me answer the question properly.

I plead The Ancient Mariner Defence: Because the story took hold of me and wouldn’t let me go.

I didn’t think that one up all by myself. In keeping with my love of everything Margaret Atwood I’ve been poring over Negotiating with the Dead, her work on writing. So many books I’ve read on getting yourself ready for agents/publishers and the like are almost mercenary and force you to think of your book as a product. Atwood reminds us why we write & redefined my whole belief in myself as a writer. I adore her to bits and would staple myself to her if this were not both disturbing and illegal. Dear Margaret Atwood’s lawyer; of course I’ll stay 100 yards at all times. She used the above quote as an explanation for why we write.

For those of us who did not have Coleridge shoved down our throats in high school (a fact for which I am eternally grateful. CJ Cherryh however is another matter) The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner is an epic poem focusing on a mariner doomed to tell the same tale over and over. It involves Fate, an albatross, lots of dead sailors reanimating themselves but mostly, is about how the mariner is taken over by the story. It compels him and won’t let him go until he’s told it.

So I answered Alex the same thing. Because the story took hold of me and wouldn’t let me go. My two main characters both have voices (naturally. It’s not a book on mutes) but they’re voices implanted in either ear that whisper. Santangelo’s is loudest. I tried to explain to Alex what it was like; that I have a Mob Boss in my ear whose voice I can hear like he was slouched against the wall next to me, cigar in hand and boots clicked together. That I don’t really get any say in what he wants to do or say. His voice is his own, he talks and I write. Ronnie’s the same. I don’t sit down and think right...here’s what I’m doing. I should have a beginning, middle and the end. Somewhere there should be conflict etc. I don’t get that. I get scenes that make me reach and scribble no matter what I’m doing, I hear Saint talking and I go to write. My muse is a lovely, mussed up, sociopathic Mob Boss with dark eyes and grizzly whiskers that I wouldn’t change for the world. My muse is an ice cold woman with golden eyes that I love like I love myself. And I do.

That’s why I answered with Margaret Atwood’s line and why Atwood’s right. I know why I write – because the story takes hold of me and won’t let me go.

Alex replied, “Spoken like a true writer.”

It's Life Jim, But Not As We Know It

I read this brilliant post by Kylie Griffin about 'World Building' in writing. It mentions how important the setting of a novel is & got me pondering. Actually pretty much anything gets me pondering. It doesn't take very much at all for me to drift off. I'm convinced I live in my own head. But the post made me think about the settings/worlds that inspire me.

Everyone, but everyone should know Terry Prachett. And everyone including the long dead Ancient Egyptians should read the Discworld series. This setting is so intricate I'd like to jump ship and live in Ankh Morpork, reside at the Unseen University (how I wish mine was unseen, particularly by me)and hang out with Death. Pratchett manages to create a setting thats the most intricately designed yet easy to understand one I've ever seen. The Discworld is logically flawed, impossible but undeniable. I'm convinced somewhere out there it exists. Its fantasy written by a master & I'd read him all day if I didnt have to do things occasionally, like breathe.

I fell hard and fast for Margaret Atwood when I was in Year 12. We were given 'The Handmaids Tale' for our text and told to read a chapter a night. I read the whole thing in a day. Gilead was frighteningly real and still is. The setting was as shocking as OfFred's tale. A future we could potentially inhabit. One of her newest - 'Oryx and Crake' scared the living daylights out of me with its setting. A new race of genetically created humans peacefully exist while the remaining humans advance themselves out of existence. Archaeology turns to rubble and one man is left watching all the pieces of brilliance shatter. The setting is terrifying and it shadows through all of Jimmy's thoughts.



Anne Rice and I met some long years back with Interview with the Vampire. The Godmother of Vampires (no, not Meyer. Go sit down. Blasphemer)takes our world, right now, the heartbeat of every city and succinctly opens up the supernatural the same way we open up a tin. Unless you're me, in which case you do it with plenty of swearing, elbow grease and finally hand it over to someone else. Vampires slip into our world and the setting becomes somehow sharper, somehow prettier when its viewed through immortal eyes. I love her settings as much as I love her Facebook updates.

Reading through the link, it shows just how important the settings are. Like a separate voice for someone who never shows their face.

Why Finding Mr Right Is Easier Than Finding An Agent

Or – give me JDM & a pen:

It’s true; finding Mr Right is much easier than finding an Agent. Especially for me as I was sadly born without a heart. It doesn’t bother me but it does make ECG’s hard work.

Finding Mr Right can be done by going to your local pub/club/watering hole/Church (not that Church should be in the same sentence as pub)cinema/shopping centre/anywhere you have people of the opposite species.

Finding an agent however is only done through long trawls through Google, especially if you, like me, have an addictive Facebook habit & a fantastical need to see if Wikipedia has anything on the latest Dr. Who. You come away with a list of agents finally & the realisation you just saved 30+ pictures of Matt Smith to your laptop yet they all look the same.

Once you’ve spent forever working on your baby (5 months in my case), pulling late nights, talking about your characters like they’re real, wondering if taking on their personalities – which considering mine are an Ice Queen and a sociopath is not a good thing – will help you pass uni this semester, you enter the world of the agent. Finding Mr (Or Mrs, lets not be sexist here) Agent is hard. The literary agency websites are designed to make you give up right there and then. Your manuscript must be double spaced, single line spaced, all spaces between words removed, no paragraphs, we want paragraphs every which way. Don’t tell us how many words is in it, we want to know how many words, commas and full stops you put in it. We want a synopsis, we want a query letter, we want your 195,000 baby in 20 words or less. We want your life story, we want your target audience, we want your comparable titles. Writing the application is longer than writing the manuscript.

At first I felt like crying when I saw the first rejection letter. Bear in mind none of these (3 so far) have said “Your work is God awful. Kindly stop breathing”. It’s been the wrong genre, not the type the agent specialises in or in the case of one very special agent I was not enough of an internet “celebrity” (his word) to have a book published. Because clearly my internet credibility, clearly an oxymoron to begin with, is more important than whether I can string words together in a sentence or whether I simply copied The Bible and changed Jesus to Edward. I’ve looked at other writers in my position and unfortunately they suffer the same kind of letters. One book on writing included the authors’ quote that she’d been “rejected by everyone in the known universe”. One had their work rejected because there were no vampires. Another, too many vampires. One particular bloke because the work was so well written the agent didn’t they could market it. Yes, I’m still puzzling that one out myself.

Then I got one particular rejection letter where the agent praised my writing. I read a beautiful passage by an amazingly talented woman I’ve only just met – Denise Parton Plunk – who, between her and Isaiah 55-63- taught me to let God be in control. I read Isaiah 60 and Isaiah 61 and felt full of faith. I took my dog for a walk in the dark and felt God wipe away the doubts. This is who I am. This is what I do.

Finding an agent is hard but without it I’d never have learnt the lessons I’ve learnt in the past few weeks. That God is in control & my part is to meet Him. It’s our book. That I can fight and scream all I want but if the agent is wrong, the way the whole deal goes down will be wrong. That you don’t get knocked down because someone doesn’t like what you do. Case in point Stephanie Meyer got 9 rejections. 5 never replied. Alexandra Adornetto got 23 rejections. JK Rowling was rejected by more than that. You trust. You believe. We’ll make it.

Finding Mr Right is much easier.